


Directed to Fail

by what_hasnt_been_taken_yet



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/F, M/M, POV Karkat Vantas, What more can I say, anyway yes i wrote another davekat fic will i ever stop writing just davekat fics probably not, dave is a director, karkat writes a romcom, shenanigans ensue thats all you gotta know, thats how that avril lavigne song went right, which is crazy cuz i usually stick to dave
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-28
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:20:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 43,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26689564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/what_hasnt_been_taken_yet/pseuds/what_hasnt_been_taken_yet
Summary: Karkat spent the last five years of his life ignoring his friends to finish writing the greatest romcom film of all time. Now, he needs a director.
Relationships: Dave Strider/Karkat Vantas, June Egbert/Terezi Pyrope
Comments: 86
Kudos: 107





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> this fic will not update regularly, maybe once a month at most. it's mostly just something relatively stress-free for me to write when i'm having writers block with my other fic lmao.  
> also i'm a sucker for davekat so really can you blame me.

You are Karkat Vantas, and you have finally finished writing your screenplay.

You remember starting it, back when you were twelve and it was a silly idea you jokingly jotted down. You remember when you were fourteen and it was a strictly confidential file hidden deep in your computer folders. You remember when you were eighteen and it was no longer a joke or an embarrassingly private file, instead a story that held so much significance to you that you were sure writing it was the most important thing you could do. You remember when you were nineteen and it was abandoned, your hopes of finishing it scattered, your time taken up by college and work and real life.

And you remember when you were twenty-three and found that old Microsoft Word file sitting untouched for years. You remember rereading it and crying, then dedicating yourself to working on it as much as you could, even if it was on the side.

It had gone through countless revisions over the years, the plot refined and refreshed, the characters’ developments charted out, the dramatic, romantic, and comedic beats timed to balance and complement each other. You’re sure you’ll never be completely satisfied with it, that you could work on it for decades and still never make it perfect, but you’re twenty-eight now and you've gotten to the point where you’re happy with it. Five years since you rediscovered it- five years of editing dialogue during your breaks at work, of staying up late adding and deleting scenes, of shutting yourself in and avoiding social events and friends to weave a fictional romantic relationship- and finally, it’s done.

This screenplay was probably the closest thing you’d ever have to a son. And damn if you didn’t want to show it off to the world.

You just had to find the right partner. A director who would intuitively understand exactly what you want from reading your script, or at least someone who listened to your spoken words when the written ones didn’t get something across.

Someone who would care for it as if it were their own.

Unfortunately, between your irritating temper problem and the fact that you spent the past few years skipping social events, your networking skills are a little… rusty. Which means you’re left with absolutely no leg-up when it comes to trying to get someone to read your script. When you do manage to get some contact information, it’s only ever for a director’s agent, and you’re left trying to explain what makes you different from the hundreds of other lonely souls out there writing “the next big movie”. It never really works out in your favor, especially when they put on that condescending tone and you get just pissed off enough to start yelling.

At this point, you’re tempted to settle for pretty much anyone. You could try a less well-known studio or director, or maybe even let some film majors at the local college take a crack at it. Except you know your movie deserves better treatment.

There’s one last avenue your haven’t tried yet, though. The idea is accompanied by a heavy sense of guilt. But you have to try it. Any chance you can get to put your screenplay out there, you’ll take.

Shoving down those guilty feelings, you grab your phone and call June Egbert.

She picks up before the third ring. “Hello?”

Now that’s a voice you haven’t heard in far too long. “Hey, June.”

“Karkat!” Like always, her voice is filled with enthusiasm. “Wow, it’s been a while! You barely text me anymore. Gosh, I can’t even remember the last time I _saw_ you. What has it been, like two years?”

“Something like that.” It’s closer to three, but you’re not about to tell her that. “Look, I’m sorry I’ve been scarcer than a germ on Howie Mandel’s ass, I’ve just been busy.” That’s not exactly true, either. If you hadn’t dedicated so much of your free time to your screenplay, you might have actually gotten out of the house for something non-work-related. You probably shouldn’t make a habit of being dishonest with your few friends- you’re probably already on thin ice with most of them, thanks to your antisocial habits, and you don’t really have any to spare.

June just laughs it off. “You’re fine, Karkat! I get it. The Man can really work a person down to the bones, huh? _Get off my back, The Man!_ ” You can clearly picture June jokingly shaking her fist at the ceiling. She’s corny like that. “Anyway, what brought you to call your dear old pal?”

“Uh, well…” Fuck. You want to tell the truth, you really do, but you don’t want to disappoint her. What kind of an asshole calls their friend of fifteen years, who they haven’t even texted since last month, and reveals they’re just calling for personal gain? You are, apparently, exactly that kind of an asshole. You are literally only calling to get your screenplay, which is the _entire reason you haven’t seen June in so long_ , some recognition.

You picked June because she’s pretty big in the entertainment industry. She’d started with a Youtube channel, harmlessly pranking unsuspecting friends for laughs. Then she’d posted comedy sketches, making her viewership soar, and suddenly she was getting attention for her skills, getting offers on SNL and a few sitcoms. You, of course, didn’t really understand the appeal of turning Youtube stars into mainstream celebrities- for the most part, it never really turned out well when they left Youtube and got media attention, and agents, and restrictions on their content. You were happy for June, though- her humor was just as potent through a television as through a computer screen. You couldn’t say you weren’t jealous, though, especially since at the time you had yet to rediscover your script and your life was feeling particularly directionless.

You know she’s made connections, what with that positivity-fueled charisma she has. She might even know a big director or two, if you’re lucky. You feel absolutely rotten for exploiting your friendship like this, especially since you’ve been such a crappy excuse of a friend lately, but this might be your last shot to get the attention your movie needs.

“Karkat?” You didn’t even realize you’d been quiet for so long.

“Yeah, sorry, I’m still here. I just called because I wanted to talk to you about something that’s pretty fucking important to me. It’s-”

“Oh, something important, you say? Why don’t you come over and we can talk about it in person?” Fuck. Just what you need, an awkward conversation _in_ _person_. “Unless it’s urgent, then of course I’ll help you as quickly as I can. But both me _and_ Terezi would really like an excuse to see you, since it’s been so long.”

Wow. Is she playing the guilt card? She definitely is. And mentioning Terezi, as if that’s a bargaining chip! Well, not that it _isn’t_ , per se. Sure, you two had a close pass with romance when you were younger, but you both got over it and were able to stay pretty close as friends, even if things didn’t end _super_ well. Okay, maybe she hates you. But hey, at least you introduced her to June, who is... another person you definitely had a fleeting crush on for a few weeks. They got on like two peas in a pod- well, okay, that’s also not true, they fought a _lot_ , but in a playful, weirdly endearing way. And then they got engaged. Your ex-crush and your ex-girlfriend. Except they’re also two of the closest friends you have.

You’re not jealous or anything- you’re glad their bickering-based relationship is so strong- but it does make you wish you had someone like that for yourself. Hell, there’s a reason your favorite movies are all romantic comedies. There’s a reason the one you _wrote_ is a romantic comedy. You just… haven’t found the right person, haven’t had the time to meet new people. You don’t even remember the last time you met someone new. Does a Doordash delivery guy count? Probably not. Besides, your shitty personality would be enough to scare off any prospective dates.

Sometimes you wonder if you’ll ever get that romcom fairy-tale ending you used to believe in. It used to drive you, the idea that fate had the perfect person waiting for you somewhere. It’s that kind of belief that propelled you to write your screenplay, and to work on it until it was done. You’re not sure if you still have it. You’re not sure you know a single shitting thing about love, or fate, or destiny. You’re not sure if your script’s story reflects you, or just a shadow, an outline you used to fill but have since grown out of. Or maybe you shrunk, and now that outline's too big to fill. You're not sure.

Then again, you’re not sure of much of anything these days.

June is still waiting patiently for your answer. You really don’t have a choice, though, and she knows it- she can be very persuasive when she wants to be. You sigh. “Sure, I guess. It’s not like I’m in a rush or anything. We can talk in person like normal fucking adults.”

“Great!” Her excitement is infectious- or it would be, if you weren’t dreading this meeting with every bone in your body. “When are you free? My schedule’s kinda tight lately, but I can definitely move things around to squeeze you in.”

She probably still thinks you’re busy as hell. Swamped with work or whatever. “Uh, I mean, I’m free pretty much any day after work. So, anytime after six, I guess.”

“Awesome!” If she’s suspicious of your sudden abundance of free time, she doesn’t show it. “How about next Wednesday?”

“That works for me. Guess I’ll see you then.”

“Heheh, not if I see you first!”

The joke doesn’t even really make sense to you, but whatever. “Sure. Bye, June.”

“Bye, Karkat!”

You hang up, then slump into your couch, putting your head in your hands.

God, you didn’t realize socializing would be this hard for you. You guess that’s what happens when you go years without practice.


	2. Chapter 2

You’ve been sitting in a chair in June’s house for all of two minutes and you’re already sweating.

As soon as you’d stepped in, June had tackle-hugged you so violently you almost fell over. While you awkwardly struggled to match the level of enthusiasm in her voice, Terezi smacked you in the shin with her cane in lieu of a greeting, cackling the whole time. June deposited you on the chair and told you to settle in while she grabbed some refreshments and snacks- apparently, she got over her hatred of baked goods, because there are quite a few homemade cookies.

And now she’s sitting across from you, her arm around her fiance, and neither of you are saying anything. You grab a cookie, hoping that stuffing your face will keep you from having to talk first. It must work, because June decides to speak.

“So, Karkat. It sure has been a while!”

Terezi snorts. “A while? More like three years! Too busy to visit your only friends?”

You cough, grabbing a cup of water to wash down the cookie bits coating the inside of your mouth. “I know, I know. It’s been too long. I’m a shitty friend.”

June elbows Terezi, frowning. “Don’t listen to her, Karkat. You’re a great friend. We just missed you!”

“Sure.” Terezi grins, leaning forward in her seat. “Say, Karkles, what were you so busy with, anyway?”

God, do you hate that nickname. She must know she has you at a disadvantage. “Uh…” You clear your throat. It’s now or never. You push down your nerves, wipe your damp palms on your pants, and attempt a smile. “That’s actually what I came here to talk about.”

“Oh yeah! You mentioned something important on the phone.” June smiles back, bright as ever, but Terezi’s staring in your general direction with a skepticism.

“So you needed ‘something important’ to have a reason to call and visit us?” she asks, though it’s much more an accusation than a question.

June is giving Terezi an exasperated look, but you sigh, putting up your hands defensively. “Okay, I know. It sounds bad. It _is_ bad! Like I said, I’ve been the shittiest friend! And no, June, don’t try to argue with me, because it’s true. Terezi’s right! I’ve avoided all my friends for way too long, and for the stupidest bullshit reasons imaginable, and I-” You take one look at their shocked faces and exhale through your nose. Sometimes you have to remember to slow down, because your voice gets carried away when you’re angry, especially when it’s _you_ who you’re angry at. “Look, I’m really sorry. I shouldn’t have isolated myself for as long as I did. But I wouldn’t have gone through my dumbfuck hibernation without a reason. I was working on this.” You grab your bag and pull out the copy of your screenplay that you printed earlier this morning- it ate through most of your ink cartridge. “I thought I couldn’t make time for you guys. But it’s finished, and I promise that means you’ll see me more.”

Neither June nor Terezi look very angry at you, which is a good sign, but it’s probably just due to the fact that they’re staring at you curiously. Terezi’s probably just wondering what you could have possibly been working on, but June’s eyes are clearly roaming all over the stack of paper in your hands. Thankfully, you’d had the foresight to get a hole-punch and binder rings, so you won’t have to worry about accidentally scattering paper across your friends’ living room. Though, between your luck and June’s prankstery habits, you’re sure they’ll find a way to end up scattering anyway.

June is the first one to speak. “Did you… write a book?”

You take another deep breath. “It’s a screenplay. A movie script. I wrote a movie.”

Terezi’s laugh is immediate, and it makes you want to shove your script back into your bag and run, or maybe curl up into a ball. You do neither of those things. “A _movie_? You’ve been too busy to see us because you were _writing a movie_? For _five years_?”

You shrug, hugging your screenplay to your chest. “Actually, um, if I’m counting correctly… I’ve been writing it for sixteen years. Except I took a four-year break, so I guess it’s closer to twelve?”

June blinks at you. “Wait. Is this the same one that you wrote as a joke when we were kids? The one you stopped letting me read?”

You bite your lip. “Maybe.” Now June’s laughing, too. Great. You were expecting to be kicked out of their house, for them to get angry and never want to see you again. You were _not_ expecting to get laughed at, and you’re not sure if that’s better. Your defensive side rears its head. “Look, I know it sounds kind of ridiculous. Trust me, I’ve called enough shitheaded agents who made that abundantly clear.” At the mention of ‘agents’, June’s laughter dies down, as if she’s realizing how seriously you’re taking this. Slowly, you lower your script from your chest, sliding it across the table. June stares at it as if it’s a pipe bomb. “This story just really speaks to me. I abandoned it when college started, but then I found it again five years ago and… I just _had_ to finish it. I had to see it through to the end, because it was important to me. That’s why I dedicated so much of my free time to writing it. That’s why I never visited. It’s a shitty excuse, but it’s the only fucking one I got. I understand if you don’t accept it, though.”

June gives you a look before picking up your manuscript and flipping through it. She’s quiet, her face contemplative, but Terezi is still grinning incredulously at you. “So that’s why you came here? To explain that the reason you’ve been MIA for the past five years is because you decided to finish writing some _movie_ you started before you hit puberty?”

You sigh again. “No. That’s not the only reason why.” June looks up from the manuscript. Usually, she’s so easy to read, that Egbert enthusiasm making every non-positive emotion more obvious, but you can’t pick up her reaction at all, and it’s adding to your already fried nerves. “June is pretty successful in the entertainment industry, so I thought-”

Terezi cuts you off with another, harsher laugh. “No! Are you kidding me, Karkat? You don’t speak to us for _years_ , choosing to work on some dumb script instead, and when you finally _do_ come to us, it’s just to use June’s reputation _for_ that script? I always knew you were insane, but this takes-”

“Terezi.” June’s voice is quiet, but there’s a power behind it that makes Terezi stop immediately. Even _you_ are a little intimidated. June pats her fiance’s leg before looking back at you. “It’s not a bad idea, Karkat. I gotta say, I admire your conviction! You really think this movie is good?”

“It’s the best _I’ve_ written,” you say sarcastically, before realizing it’s probably in bad taste to joke right now. Whoops. “Uh, I mean, yeah. I think it is.”

“Then I believe you.” June’s smile is a relief to see. “You’re a crazy dude, Karkat, but you always have been.”

“Wait!” Terezi frowns. “You’re not _seriously_ thinking of helping him, are you?”

June shrugs. “Why not? He’s our friend!”

Your mouth drops open in shock, but before you can even process what just happened, Terezi keeps talking. “But he avoided us for five years to write this! He only came to you to _use_ you! You’re not _mad_ at him?”

“Don’t get me wrong, I’m definitely mad!” Your chest deflates a little, even though June is giving you her patented goofy grin as she says it. “But I think I can excuse him if he makes it up to me! He's pursuing his _passion_ , after all. How could I blame him for that?”

Terezi groans, her face dropping into her hands. “What nerdy ghost could have possibly possessed me to make me fall for a loser like you?”

“Aw, come on, you love me.” June prods Terezi’s face until her head pops back up. She scowls at June, who just laughs.

You watch this quietly, chewing the inside of your cheek. “So. Uh. You’re really helping me?”

“Of course! You’re one of my closest friends, dude, even if I barely saw you for the past few years. Which, by the way, you _will_ have to make up for those five years.”

You definitely don’t like the sound of that. “... How, exactly?”

“By hanging out with us as much as possible, of course! Oh, and I might prank you a few hundred times.” You groan at June’s ear-to-ear grin. Terezi is still grumbling on the couch- something about you being a spineless maggot who only deserves to eat rotting corpses. You’re not gonna let it bother you, though. You’re _not_.

“Fine. Thanks, June. Seriously, it means a lot to me. I promise I’ll make it up to you.”

In all honesty, you’re proud of June. It’s not often you see a lesbian trans woman succeed in the entertainment business as well as she has. You just hope she only lets people she trusts take advantage of that. And if not, you just hope that Terezi is there to stop anyone who actually means to hurt her.

You’re just glad they trust you enough to go through with this.

“So, what now? I’m guessing you need a director?” June’s voice is pointed, her small smile giving away that she has something planned. That’s always a worrying sight where June Egbert is concerned.

“I mean, that would be the logical first step for making a movie. Can’t exactly make one _without_ a director.” You narrow your eyes at her. “Do you know one?”

June laughs, waving the question away with one hand. Terezi just sighs- by the look on her face, she clearly knows what’s going on here. “Oh, sure, I know a few. In fact, I’m really close friends with one director.”

Even though you can sense something vaguely fishy about this, you lean forward excitedly. “Really?”

“Oh, yeah. Remember when we were younger, I had a group of online friends?”

You nod. You had your own group, of course. Online is where you first met a lot of your friends- Terezi, Sollux, Gamzee, Kanaya. God, you haven’t heard from some of them in so long. “Yeah. I never met any of them- wait, no, I met Jade.”

“Yeah, you met her, but you haven’t met-”

Terezi interrupts with a snide grin. “Maybe if you hung out with us more the past few years, you would have actually been introduced to June’s other friends.”

“ _Terezi!_ ” June whines, rolling her eyes before turning back to you. “Ignore her. Anyway, turns out one of those friends became a pretty big director, and we’re super tight.”

You really can’t help it, now. You’re literally on the edge of your seat. “Yeah? What’s their name?”

“Dave Strider.”

“No.” Your response is an immediate knee-jerk reaction, because you recognize the name _instantly_.

“W-what?”

“Anyone but him. You don’t have any other best friend directors?”

“N-no, it’s just Dave.” June is staring at you, flabbergasted. “But why wouldn’t you want to work with him?”

“You wanna know why?” You throw your hands up. “Because I _know_ the kind of movies he makes. I’ve seen glimpses, _horrific_ glimpses, of those glitched-out, jerkily-filmed, JPEG-infested scenes and it still gives me nightmares. And don’t get me started on the stale inappropriate jokes he tries to pass off as comedy! I refuse to even _watch_ the shit he parades around as films, let alone let my movie become one of those shits.”

June’s eyes narrow. “So you’ve never seen them?”

You scowl, rolling your eyes. “Seeing the trailers was more than enough to make me want to gouge my eyes out and throw them into a volcano. I mean, honestly, Hollywood has been going downhill for decades, but even I can’t believe they allow that fraud to keep pumping out his abhorrent franchise.”

“But… but he’s a good director! His movies are actually super deep. I mean, he explained it in detail to me once, and I don’t remember most of it, but I got the general idea! You gotta give him a chance.”

You shake your head. “Sorry, June, but he’s _not_ an option. You would have to kill me before I let Dave Strider’s grubby, unprofessional hands anywhere _near_ my movie.”

June pouts. It’s something she picked up from Jade, though she can never pull it off quite as well. You’re not sure _anyone_ could compete with Jade; her ability to give the puppy-eye is almost disturbing. June only really does this when she knows she’s out of her element. “But he’s, um, subversive!”

“Subversive? His movies look like someone blasted a confetti cannon at the screen.”

“It makes sense in the story!”

“Oh, let me guess, does someone go on a wildly messy Poptart murder spree? Or does the main character get diagnosed with ‘constantly throwing up pixelated rainbows’?”

Terezi snickers at that. “Those are some colorful descriptions, Karkles. Literally. I can’t exactly weigh in on this debate, but as someone who has at least _listened_ to Dave’s movies, I _can_ say that they are a lot more interesting than you’re giving them credit for. And most people I talk to seem to agree on that.”

You groan. “I don’t care! There is no way in hell I’m working with him.”

“Then it’s your loss,” Terezi replies, shrugging. “Because that’s the only director we know.”

You open your mouth, all fired up with a retort, but June raises her hand and gives you a look, which works much more effectively than her pout had. “Come on, Karkat, can’t you give him a chance? Watch one of his movies, or maybe meet him! He _is_ one of my best friends. I’m sure he’d be more than willing to work with you, and he wouldn’t do anything to your movie that you don’t want! At the very least, you should get to know him.”

You cross your arms, looking away, and think about it. You _really_ don’t want to use Strider as your director. It’s too big of an unpredictable risk, not just because of his propensity to purposefully fuck up his movies, but because he’s a young director who rose to fame way quicker than usual and that kind of stuff can go to a person’s head. You don’t need some arrogant idiot cramming meme templates and fart jokes into your movie, you need someone who will _listen_ to you.

On the other hand, Terezi, like usual, is right. Your options are limited. It would definitely get your movie the attention you want if you had a director of Strider’s caliber, rather than your backup plan of ‘random film student’. It wouldn’t necessarily _hurt_ you to watch his movies, not physically, at least- unless you end up getting actually sick from watching. Nor would it hurt for you to _meet_ him. Plus, he might have connections to some other directors, might even be able to put you in touch with them.

Or maybe, if by some miracle Strider turns out to _not_ be a pretentious douche of a director, there might be the incredibly slim chance that you _do_ decide to work with him. You highly doubt it, though.

As if she noticed you were deliberating, June pipes up again. “Dave is super cool and sweet, right, Terezi?”

“Sure. I mean, he kind of came off as an asshole at first.” June elbows her at this, which prompts Terezi to swat at her face. “Stop doing that! I was _trying_ to say he’s cool once you get to know him.”

“Well, you didn’t have to mention the ‘asshole’ part!”

“It’s true, though!”

“Not recently! He’s been trying to drop all tha-”

“Would you two stop bickering for two seconds?” you interrupt, much louder than necessary. They both clam up immediately. “Thank you. I’ve come to a decision.”

June nearly hops out of her chair. “And? Are you gonna choose Dave as your director?”

You sigh. “No, June. Probably not.” She sags a little, but you’re not done. “But I _guess_ I can at least meet him before making any final decisions. I doubt he’ll change my mind, but what the hell? No point in not trying.”

June is beaming at you, her hands clasped together. “Sweet! You won’t regret it.”

Terezi smirks. “Probably.”

“Well, that’s reassuring,” you deadpan.

June winces, though you can tell she’s amused by Terezi’s antics. “I’ll be saying this for the rest of my life, but _don’t listen to her_. I’ll set up a day we can all meet. Sound good?”

“Sure. Whatever.”

“Not whatever! Two of my best friends are finally meeting! It’s _exciting._ ”

Despite your apprehension, and your major doubt of Strider’s character, June’s enthusiasm gets to you, and you give her a small smile. “ _Okay_. I guess it’s good he’s your best friend. That way, meeting him won’t be a complete waste of my time.”

Terezi laughs, and June sticks her tongue out at both of you, and it’s like you’ve settled into a rhythm with them, a familiar groove of passing barbs, one that was chiseled out by years of squabble-filled friendship. You forgot how good it felt to talk to the people you love _in real life_. You forgot how easy it could be.

You spend the rest of the afternoon catching up with your old friends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i do love myself some junerezi content. they are both Bitches but only one will apologize for it.


	3. Chapter 3

Driving up to Strider’s house, your nerves are on fire.

Of course, you only consider it a house because it’s just a smidgen too small to be a mansion, but the place is still outrageously gigantic for its single occupant. At least, you think Dave lives alone? June hadn’t mentioned anything about a significant other or family members or anyone else you should be prepared to meet, but that could just be Egbert forgetting to fill you in. Of course, the tabloids don’t have any information on the house or its inhabitants, either.

And yes, you did do some research. You didn’t _only_ read tabloids, you’re not _that_ idiotic. You were just curious, and thought you should prepare to meet Strider, especially since he was a pretty big figure in the media and you’re sure he would expect you to at least know _something_ about him. And you’re glad you did research, because you realized you knew basically jack shit about him.

He was born only a few months before you, in Texas- and he has the drawl to prove it. Not much is known about his childhood or personal life, except that he apparently grew up in an apartment in downtown Houston, the address of which is unknown. No information about parents or siblings- for all the world knew about his upbringing, he could’ve been raised by wolves- or you suppose sewer rats would be more appropriate for an urban city. He got a scholarship to a film school and made his first film- _sweet bro and hella jeff: the comic: the moive [sic]_ , based on a webcomic he’d written when he was much younger- at the age of 20. Between his webcomic’s die-hard devotees and his newly garnered fans on Youtube, it was more than enough attention for him to get the ball rolling. He managed to finish two low-production, bizarrely-named sequels before graduating, and immediately got picked up by some big studio to remaster his films for general audiences. As far as you can tell, this just meant spending a lot more money on big-name actors- Ben Stiller, Owen Wilson, _and_ Donald Glover, of all fucking people- and unnecessary CGI- JPEG artifacts were a lot easier that way, you suppose- and elaborate sets- mostly just elaborately reimagined, Escher-esque staircases, for some unfathomable reason. Aside from producing four more of these nonsensical SBaHJ movies, he also directed two standalone films- one an absurd sci-fi horror-comedy reminiscent of The Blob and Back to the Future, the other clearly a mashed-up parody of Indiana Jones and Jurassic Park.

You begrudgingly watched both of these films, and they were, admittedly, not too bad, aside from a few weird moments where Strider made some… _interesting_ choices. There was a lot of purposefully awkward dialogue, immersion-shattering breaking of the fourth wall, and stilted fight scenes, all shot at unconventional angles. You’re not really sure if any of those choices _meant_ anything, but it just left you oddly uncomfortable watching the films.

The one SBaHJ movie- or _moive_ , as the title boldly claims- you managed to sit through gave you that same feeling of discomfort, multiplied by a thousand. The unique filming choices were even more obvious, accompanied by blatant references to pop culture, random overuse of video filters, and some of the strangest, unfunny slapstick you’ve ever forced yourself to watch- from twelve-minute long segments of people falling down stairs to a whole scene dedicated to Stiller’s character- you _think_ he’s Sweet Bro- struggling to figure out how to correctly position scissors to cut a wire on a bomb, while Wilson yelled directions at him to ‘flip it turnways’. The plot was incomprehensible, and not just because the audio was purposefully garbled at times. In fact, you’re not really sure there was a plot. It was just a menagerie of references until about halfway into the movie, where the closest thing resembling a plot made its appearance. This “plot” was saving Glover, as Geromy, from the antagonist, who you _think_ was Sweet Bro’s ‘hot mom’. Except the situation was resolved five minutes after it was introduced, and the rest of the movie fell back into the same patterns, only now there were also a few distorted clips from other movies mixed in, along with gameplay for some skating games. You’re not entirely sure how Strider got the rights to do that, but there you go.

After your viewing experience, you were utterly convinced that June's claims that these movies were ‘super deep’ and ‘subversive’ were, frankly, bullshit. All you got out of watching them was that they were highly-budgeted, poorly-made movies heavily influenced by meme culture and the director’s absurd perspective.

That is, until you watched the interviews. Strider seemed like a total prick in most of them, always dressed in a brightly-colored suit and huge, douchey shades that completely covered his eyes- you’re pretty sure there isn’t a single picture of him without them on. He answered the interviewers’ questions with a distant, unaffected voice, his posture radiating disinterest. He certainly loved to talk, though, going on tangents that could last for five minutes before even getting to his actual answer to a question. But whenever they asked about his process, or the meaning behind his movies or film decisions, Strider would get uncharacteristically quiet, almost defensive. He would explain a few things, which frankly sounded like bullshit to you- how mocking movie tropes was “subverting” the entire medium- but mostly he just argued that if they had to ask, they would never really understand his message. Which just pissed you off, because it was the most pretentious, shallow, cop-out shit answer imaginable. Which is probably what he was going for, because the sheer power of your righteous anger just motivates you to figure out the ‘message’ yourself.

You don’t allow yourself to get that carried away, though. You just watch his interviews and slowly build a picture of this aloof asshole in your head, this pretentious, taint-sniffing moldstain who somehow achieved everything you want and more in the same lifespan and has the _audacity_ to be nonchalant about it. To top it all off, he’s devastatingly good-looking. You’re not sure which part of that fueled your hatred more.

Needless to say, after witnessing his disastrous but bafflingly-popular attempts at film, you’re pretty dead-fucking-sure that you’re not letting the dude come within a foot of your script, and that nothing about meeting him today is going to change that, your desperation for a director be damned. You’ll still meet him, of course, because you agreed to, and because he’s June’s friend, but you don’t expect to think much of him, aside from the disdain you already feel. And the jealousy. And the awe. And the-

Okay, you need to stop that right there. You’re already nervous enough, meeting a celebrity. June was different, since you’ve known her since childhood, but this guy was twenty-nine and already well-known. You admire that, even if it ticks you off that he fell ass-backwards into popularity with his garbage films while you can’t even get recognition for your script… which, yeah, _maybe_ it took you more than a decade to write, while _Strider_ was pumping out films like they were bastard children. Though you guess it doesn’t take as much effort if he’s not actually trying to nurture his projects. You put so much effort into your screenplay that Strider’s collection of ill-begotten projects looks downright pitiful.

At least, that’s what you keep repeating in your head to keep your nerves from spiking. Because, if you were a betting man, you would put all your chips on you making a fool of yourself today. You just _know_ you’re either gonna fall apart from anxiety in the mere presence of a bonafide famous person, or you’re gonna say the wrong thing, get carried away insulting his movies, and get yourself blacklisted from Hollywood forever. The odds of you managing to not fuck this up are about a million to one.

It’s times like these that you really wish you hadn’t skipped out on social interaction for so long.

You pull into the obnoxiously long driveway- you’re frankly surprised there wasn’t a gate or anything, though you guess maybe no one has figured out Strider lives here. Unless this is just June playing a prank on you. You really hope this isn’t just another Egbert prank. You can’t be held liable for what you decide to do to June if it is. Her car is already in the driveway, so she must have beat you here.

June answers the door mere seconds after you ring the doorbell, grinning at you goofily. Great. Your suspicions are only heightened now. “Oh, Karkat! So glad you could make it. Dave will be right down, he’s just getting dressed.”

You step into Strider’s house- if it is indeed Strider’s house, and not just some random friend of June’s who let her set up a prank trap for you- glancing around the relatively modest foyer. Everything is dark- the walls, the hardwood floors, the drapes that block out most of the light from outside- and the design is exceedingly simple. Aside from two squat armchairs, a sideboard, a few pieces of abstract art, and a curved staircase leading to the second floor, the room is empty. It looks like something you would see in a magazine for minimalist interior design, which is to say the room doesn’t look lived in. It doesn’t tell you anything about Strider, either, so you dismiss it.

Off to the side you see a living room, which looks less like it was entirely pulled from a picture. Sleek, low couches- one of which Terezi is lounging on- frame a glass coffee table, and hanging on the wall is an impressively large flat screen, complete with a surround sound speaker system. That is certainly a much clearer indicator of Dave Strider’s character than his lackluster foyer. You don’t get any time to poke around for more clues, though, because June is ushering you to the couch, seating you next to Terezi, who scrunches her nose up at you.

“Did you just put Karkles next to me, dear?” she asks, sneering. “His odious presence is overpowering my senses.”

You roll your eyes. “Oh please, as if _I’m_ the odious one here. _You’re_ the one who decided to greet me with an insult.”

“June, could you tell Mr. Vantas that an insult is the only appropriate greeting for someone so reprehensible?”

“June, could you tell your fiancé that her opinion of me is as meaningless as her impact on the world?”

June just huffs, looking down at the two of you with amusement. Apparently sitting is not an option for her. “How about you guys cut the squabbling and act civilly towards each other for once in your lives? We’re guests here. Besides, Karkat, you don’t want to make a bad impression on Dave.”

As if following a script, you hear a low, subdued voice come from the staircase. “Did someone say Dave?” You turn, mildly annoyed, to face the entrance you just came from, and freeze.

Dave Strider is not at all what you were expecting. Which isn’t a bad thing, considering you expected a total douchebag. It’s definitely him, you recognize that face from the interviews- so you suppose you can cross off the possibility of June trying to prank you- but everything else is... different. For one, he isn’t wearing a suit, or even anything remotely resembling professional- just a red hoodie, grey sweatpants, and mismatched socks. Which is surprising, because when June mentioned that Strider was "getting dressed", you'd assumed it wouldn't be so _casual_. You, on the other hand, had put on your nicest sweater and your only pair of skinny jeans, afraid of dressing down, but it looks like you needn’t have worried. His hair, which you’ve only ever seen flawlessly gelled and styled, isn’t a _mess_ , at least not in the same way yours is, but is definitely mussed in a way that could be considered intentional. His gait is relaxed- not completely devoid of the swagger you’ve seen in videos, but definitely toned down to be barely perceptible. His smile is just as relaxed.

The biggest surprise, though, is his shades. They’re perched on top of his head, which means you have a full view of the eyes you’re pretty sure most of the general public has never seen. And damn are they _stunning_ , a bright red that you can see shining from here. He was always attractive in those interviews, sure, but something about those eyes makes your heart beat unnaturally fast.

No. Stop. What are you doing? Remember who this pretty-eyed douche is. This is still Dave Strider, asshole extraordinaire with a lot of misplaced fame for his lack of talent. He is _not_ going to be your next infatuation. You’d think you would learn, after years of humiliating failures and crushing refusals, that you shouldn’t fall for every cute face within a mile radius.

You convince yourself that whatever flutter is going on in your chest will be stamped out as soon as he talks and reveals himself to be the total prick you know he is.

You’ll find out soon enough how wrong you are.

Dave approaches the couch, raising an eyebrow at you before glancing at June. “I’m guessing this is Karkat?”

June is grinning the same way she does whenever she gets a huge prank idea. It’s a grin you’ve learned to be afraid of. “Yup! Dave Strider, meet Karkat Vantas, aspiring filmmaker. Karkat, meet Dave, acclaimed director.”

You shoot up out of your seat, offering your hand. Just because you don’t think you’ll like the guy doesn’t mean you shouldn’t be polite. “Nice to meet you,” you say, gruffly, because you can’t help but be a prickly person. It’s just who you are. Maybe you’re the _real_ asshole here.

Dave just flashes a disarming smile at you, accompanied by a wink, and you pray to whatever higher power there is that your cheeks don’t turn red. You tell yourself it’s because you’re annoyed by the wink, _not_ because you found it endearing. “Likewise.” He gestures for you to sit back down before plopping onto the couch across from you, right next to June. Good. At least you don’t have to sit next to him. “So I hear you’ve been close with June and ‘Rezi for a long time.” The Texan accent that was so prominent in all his interviews is a lot less obvious now.

You shrug. “Yeah, I guess. Not sure why they decided to stick around.”

Terezi elbows you. “Oh, trust me, I would’ve jumped ship from S.S. Vantas a long time ago if June would let me.”

You’re definitely flushed from embarrassment now, but Dave just groans. “So she’s like that with everyone, then. Glad to know it’s not just me.”

“You’d think she would show a _little_ gratitude after I introduced her to June, but _no_ , she can’t help but be a bitch.” Wow, where the fuck is your filter? Great way to make a first impression on Strider, insulting one of your two mutual friends. Awesome job, Karkat. You earn a poke from Terezi for your efforts.

However, Dave surprises you by laughing at your comment. He has a nice laugh, deep and rolling. _Stop thinking about how nice his laugh is, fuckass._ “Come on, TZ, you owe the dude some respect.”

“Me? Show Karkat respect?” She scoffs in faked offense. “Never! That would be admitting he has any redeeming qualities, which he doesn't.”

You elbow her back. “I’ll have you know I possess plenty of redeeming qualities. Like my total lack of social awareness. And my obnoxiously loud voice. Hey, maybe I’ll combine those two qualities with some alcohol at your wedding, I’m sure you’ll learn to appreciate me then.”

June sighs, Dave laughs again, and Terezi wrinkles her nose. “Guess I’m revoking your invite then.”

“Terezi, you can’t do that,” June mutters, rolling her eyes.

You grin. “You hear that, Terezi? You can’t stop me. _S.S. Vantas_ is scheduled to crash the fuck into your reception."

“Karkat, did you forget it’s _my_ wedding, too?”

“Fine, I won’t crash it,” you reply, in an exaggeratedly disappointed voice. “But _just_ for you, June. I don’t need Terezi to think I would ever do _her_ any favors.”

Dave is smiling at you again, in that distractingly dazzling way. Why the _fuck_ is he doing that. He has no right to be making your knees feel that weak. It’s a good thing you’re sitting. “June, you didn’t tell me Karkat would be so funny.”

Funny? He thinks you’re _funny?_ You didn't even really make a joke. You don’t get a chance to ask what the fuck he means, though, because June starts talking. “Oh, come on, would you expect any less of my friends?”

“I dunno, Egbert, you’re kind of a total dork. You could always befriend another dork.”

“Oh, don’t worry, Karkat’s definitely also a dork.”

You cross your arms petulantly. “I am _not_ a dork.”

Terezi laughs at that. “Really? The guy who spent half of his life writing a _romantic comedy_ isn’t a dork?”

“That’s what I said, isn’t it?”

Dave winks at you. “Don’t worry, Vantas, I don’t care if you’re a dork. With me in the room, we can’t have too many other cool guys hanging around. Might overload the cool-mometer.” Between his flat tone and his shit-eating grin, you’re pretty sure he’s being sarcastic. “Which is, of course, just a thermometer that measures coolness.” Okay, he’s definitely joking.

“Right. _You’re_ the one who’s gonna make the cool-mometer explode.”

“That’s what I said, isn’t it?”

Ooh, he really just mocked you, didn’t he? Between that little smirk and the way his eyes are flashing, you could swear he’s challenging you. So it’s a snark-off he wants, huh? Little does he know he’s dueling with the fastest fuck-slinger this side of the Mississippi. And, sure, maybe phrasing it that way in your head makes it sound a little suggestive, but fuck it. “Actually, no, you said that another cool person would overload it, not you. I guess you’re just not cool enough.”

He puts a hand to his heart, his eyes widening in mock betrayal. “Ouch. You come into my house and insult my coolness?” For a second, you’re afraid you actually crossed a line or something, but he just grins. Of course, you were kind of insanely dumb for thinking that joking around about his 'coolness' was crossing any lines, but hey, you’re a chronic worrier. “That’s cold, man.”

“You’re damn right it is. You could almost say it’s… cool.”

He cracks up, shaking his head. “Naw! Just by saying that you immediately became un-cool. Sorry, dude.”

You shrug, trying to fight a smile. “Whatever.” Dave is definitely a lot less of an asshole than what you guessed from your initial assessment. You’re not sure exactly what changed. Maybe it’s because the sarcastic comments are laced with enough humor to not seem douchey, as opposed to in the interviews, where his stoic expression and disinterest made them seem callous. He definitely doesn’t look disinterested now. In fact, he seems a lot more genuine. It’s a startling difference from how he presented himself to the media, almost contradictory. If it weren’t for the fact that you _knew_ this was Dave Strider, you could almost mistake him for a different person. Or maybe you’re just a bad judge of character, or were too quick to judge him based on his weird films and his interactions with interviewers. Or maybe he has a twin... no, that's stupid as hell.

The girls are staring at the both of you as if a third eye popped into existence on your forehead. Or, you guess in Terezi’s case, as if you suddenly started speaking in a foreign language. June glances between you and Dave for a few seconds before focusing on her soon-to-be-wife. “I think we should go.”

Dave doesn’t seem all that surprised by June’s words, but your eyebrows lower in confusion. “What? Why?”

June shrugs. “I mainly just came to introduce you two, and to make sure you both played nice. But it looks like my services aren’t needed! Besides, you have some business things to discuss, and you don’t need me or Terezi butting in.”

Your eyes narrow. “I mean, I guess, but it’s not like it’s that private or anything. You guys can-”

“No, we better get going,” Terezi interrupts, as you’re more than used to her doing by now. She’s already standing, leaning on her cane. “You two can handle it from here. You’re both grown adults.”

“Besides, I’ve got a very busy schedule!” June adds, grinning. “Hate to cut and run, but I’m sure you know how it goes.” Before you can process it, she’s up, too, already leading Terezi toward the door.

Dave gives them a lazy wave. “See y’all around.”

“Wait-” you start, slightly bewildered by how quickly they decided to leave.

“Bye!” June says over her shoulder, before rushing out the door. Just like that, they’re gone.

And you’re alone with Dave Strider, acclaimed director, who’s starting to make you think you were mistaken in pegging him as an asshole, who can actually pull off sarcasm and get a laugh out of you, who is annoyingly, distractingly cute.

You get the feeling that your day just got a whole lot more complicated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> june and terezi as they both realize that dave and karkat already have it bad after *checks watch* three minutes: our job is done.


	4. Chapter 4

“So…” Dave is staring at you unabashedly, his eyes unwavering, drilling into yours. You fight the urge to look away. Earlier you thought you could read his expression, but now his smile has dropped, his face blank, and it’s just a _little_ intimidating. The way his couches are angled means that he’s only a few feet away, across that little glass table. You wish there was something more substantial between you two.

You try to straighten up, meet his gaze with the same intensity, though you find yourself fidgeting with discomfort. “So?”

Dave blinks, as if whatever spell he was under broke. His next question is completely unexpected. “Do you want something to drink? Fuck, I’m a terrible host, why didn’t I offer you anything to drink?”

You wave him off. “I’m fine-”

“Naw, dude, it’s no biggie, I gotta get you a drink. That is like the number one rule when it comes to hospitality. Gotta serve you a refreshment like you’re a dude on butler island and I’m one of the centaur butlers.”

“W-what?”

He grins. “Inside joke. Don’t worry about it.” He stands up, abruptly. What is it with people leaving your presence without warning all of the time? Are you really _that_ much of a social deterrent? “You want water? AJ? Something with a kick? I think I have some alcohol somewhere…” He starts mumbling various alcoholic beverages to himself.

Okay, this dude is… scatterbrained. You would almost think he’s nervous, but that makes zero sense- _he’s_ the celebrity here. You watch in bafflement as he continues to list different kinds of wine, before realizing you should probably just interrupt whatever weird ramble he’s on. “Water is fine.”

“Oh, aight. Actually, you wanna come to the kitchen with me? I don’t wanna leave you in here by yourself.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Why? You think I’m gonna steal something?”

He smirks at that. “Well, now I _definitely_ think you are, but that’s not why. I just think there’s probably another rule in the hospitality textbook about not leaving a guest bored and all alone. Since June and Terezi decided to ditch us, I wouldn’t wanna leave you unattended.”

“Riiiight.” You shrug, standing up. “Whatever, it’s not like there’s anything in here I would steal anyway. I doubt I could wrench the flatscreen off the wall without you noticing.” You pointedly look around the sparsely decorated room, which is severely lacking in anything that is both small enough and valuable enough for you to bother trying to steal without him noticing.

“Okay, so I don’t own a lot of stuff. Sue me.”

“Trust me, if I could sue you, I would. It would pay better than selling any piece of junk from this house.”

“Then remind me not to do anything lawsuit-worthy.”

“And why would I do that? I’d _love_ to have a reason to sue you.”

Dave laughs, shaking his head. “You’re impossible. Come on, let’s go get you some water. And don’t pretend to choke on it or anything, because that will not hold up in court.” He surprises you by holding out a hand to help you up. You begrudgingly take it- his hands are oddly rough, callused from years of… well, you don’t know what. You’re pretty sure directing doesn’t give people calluses.

“Hey, thanks for the idea, idiot! You know, my lawyer’s pretty good, I bet she could get me a few grand out of that.”

He leads you through the foyer and deeper into the house. “Yeah, well so’s mine. She’s the best in the biz.” He pauses, his nose scrunched up. It’s weirdly cute- _no,_ it isn’t, you definitely _don’t_ think Dave Strider is cute. “Wait, is your lawyer also Terezi?”

You groan. “Oh my fucking God. Well, that ruins my plans! No way is she going to choose me over you, she _hates_ me.”

Dave shrugs. “I dunno about that one, man. Pretty sure she hates me just as much.”

“Wanna fucking bet? I have fucking _history_ with her. You can’t top that.”

He gives you a suspicious glance. “Really? What kind of history?”

You’ve only known Dave for all of five minutes, but you’re getting along pretty well. You think you can trust him with one embarrassing story. Plus, maybe you’ll bond over your exasperation with a certain blind girl. “Well, when we were in high school we tiptoed around dating for a while, and when we finally got together, I was an awkward wreck. I was hopelessly clingy, a total mess on our dates, and to top it all off, I kept waffling on whether I actually felt romantic feelings towards her. I eventually decided to tell her I didn’t think it was working out. Of course, since I was a dumbass idiot kid with about as much sense as a dishrag, I broke the news while I was at her house. Eating dinner with her family.” Dave wheezes at that, and you roll your eyes. “Yeah, I know, it’s fucking bad. I was under the insanely false impression it would cushion the blow, but it did the exact opposite. I broke her heart, she slapped me, eventually we made up, but ever since then we’ve been in this weird limbo state where we can’t go more than two minutes without insulting each other. So, yeah. Beat that.”

Dave nods solemnly at that, though in a way that is _definitely_ sarcastic. You realize that at some point you had both stopped walking, and are now just standing awkwardly next to the staircase. Dave doesn’t seem to notice, or particularly care, so you decide not to bring it up. “Well, that’s _impressively_ awful. I think you have my story beat. No point recounting it now.”

You scowl at him. “Oh, come on, you aren’t getting out that easily. I told you my story, you gotta tell me yours.”

“Dang, so close. Okay, so when I first met Terezi, June set the whole thing up. But, since it was June, she decided she wanted to prank the living hell out of me. So she told me she wanted me to meet a girl, and _conveniently_ forgot to mention that this girl was her girlfriend. So, naturally, I assume June’s trying to set me up with her.” You suck in your teeth. You have been the victim of many of Egbert’s pranks, so you certainly feel his pain. “So I go over, and a minute after meeting her, I start shamelessly hitting on Terezi. Like, _really_ flirting. I pulled every signature Strider move on her. And all it got me was a cane to the gut.” You barely keep yourself from laughing at that, out of respect for his plight. “June explained everything afterward, but I don’t think Terezi fully forgave me for a while.”

You snort. “That’s Terezi for you. She never fails to hold a grudge.”

“Amen to that, Vantas. It’s obvious you won that one, then. Terezi _has_ to hate your guts way more than mine.”

“Fuck. Guess I’ll have to find a better lawyer.”

“Not possible.” You both giggle at that, before Dave looks around, slightly confused. “Uh. When did I stop walking?”

You shrug. “A while ago.”

“Fuck. Sorry, I get easily distracted.”

“It’s fine.”

He grins at you, then, inexplicably, begins speaking in a high-fantasy Medieval accent. “Then we mustn’t tarry any longer, Sir Vantas. We have a drink quest to complete!”

You stare at him, eyes narrowed. “Tarry? _Sir Vantas?_ ”

“Indeed, my good fellow. Shall we continue on our journey?”

“Sure, if you stop talking like a nerd.”

He gasps exaggeratedly. “How dare thee? Twice now have you slandered the coolness of Lord Strider, in his own kingdom, no less. You must be tried for your crimes.”

You facepalm, trying to hide your smile. His incredibly stupid humor shouldn’t be this enjoyable. “Dave. Can you _please_ just drop the stupid accent so we can go to the fucking kitchen?”

“Lord Strider has just decided your punishment is… never getting to hear that voice again.” Thankfully, his voice drops back into its normal cadence, and he smirks at you. “Your loss, Vantas.”

“Oh no, what a terrible punishment, I’m definitely not completely okay with that,” you deadpan, making Dave’s smile wider. “So are you gonna lead the way or what? I don’t know where the kitchen is in this huge fucking house.”

“Oh, right.” Dave starts walking again, leading you a few more steps past the staircase to… the kitchen. Which was apparently only a couple of yards away from where you’d been standing that entire time. Jesus Christ. “You have arrived at your destination. The route guidance is now finished.”

“Shut up,” you mutter, looking around. The kitchen is as simple as the rest of the house so far- sleek counters and dark cabinets, a few barstools at an island, and a dining table set that looks utterly unused. No wooden signs with kitschy slogans on the walls, no random fruit stands sitting on a counter, nothing to indicate the room was actually lived in at all. You had expected at least a _little_ personality to shine through in the kitchen, a room you’re sure he must spend _some_ time in, but it feels just as empty as the rest of the house so far. You wonder if _any_ of the rooms contain personal items, something that could point to Dave’s interests or hobbies or _anything_. The most likely option would be his bedroom, which you won’t be seeing anytime soon.

Maybe you should stop thinking about his bedroom.

Besides, you don’t have to snoop to figure out who he is. He has plenty of personality all on his own, and you’re sure if you asked he would tell you all about his interests. And you’ve seen a few of his… movies… right. For a few minutes you’d completely forgotten he was Dave Strider, the pretentious director of weird movies you kind of hate. For a few minutes he was just Dave Strider, the interesting, funny, dorky guy who you were starting to consider as a friend after only five minutes of knowing him. You’re having a hard time reconciling those two wildly contrasting images of him. Watching him now, grabbing two glasses from a nearly-empty cabinet, you can’t see the director side of him at all. Though he definitely has that weird quality, you’ll give him that.

He pops open the fridge, which is also pretty empty- a couple containers of Chinese takeout, a pizza box, and a few miscellaneous drinks- and grabs the gallon of water and a jug of some sort of juice- at least, you _hope_ it’s juice. He pours them both and hands you the water. “Alright, mission completed, I’m the fucking god of hospitality now.”

You nod, taking a sip of the water, but you’re still eyeing his now-closed fridge. “So, I’m guessing you order a lot of delivery?”

He tenses, hands gripping his glass of juice, and his smile drops, for just a second, but you catch it. Odd. “Oh, yeah. I don’t really do much cooking, you know? It’s easier to just order stuff, especially since it’s just me here.”

Well, that answers your unasked question. You were wondering if he lived with family, or a significant other. “Makes sense.” You’re not sure that’s all there is to it, especially given the way he’s subtly fidgeting with his shirt, but you decide not to push it. This is the first time you’ve seen him on-edge since you met him. You’re not about to nudge him out of his comfort zone when you barely know him.

It seems he’s eager to change the subject, too. He sits down on one of the barstools, gesturing for you to join him. “So I guess we should talk about… what you came here to talk about.”

Right. Your script. His connection to Hollywood. The whole reason you’re here. You realize you left your bag, with your screenplay in it, in the living room. Whoops. “Yeah. Would be kind of stupid for us not to.”

He looks at you, his mouth quirking up in contemplation. “June said you haven’t seen any of my movies.”

“No. I mean, yes. I mean-” You sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose. “After I talked to June about meeting you, I decided to watch a few to… prepare, I guess. Just the first Sweet Bro one and your two standalones.”

He nods, sipping his apple juice- you’re almost completely sure that’s what it is. “And what’d you think?”

You’re pretty sure that this should be going the other way- _he_ should be telling _you_ what he thinks of your script, deciding whether or not to partner with you. You’re not really sure what your thoughts about his movies have to do with anything. He’s the already-established filmmaker, and you’re the desperate commoner looking for someone famous to pick up your movie. Except, right now, you’re not feeling particularly desperate. You consider lying about your opinion, but you doubt that’ll do you much good. You’re not one to suck up to someone just because you want something. Besides, you don’t think Dave would particularly care if you didn’t like his movies. “I’m gonna be honest with you, I hate them. The standalones were okay, I guess, but the Sweet Bro and whatever series? They look like they were created by a few hundred toddlers with Photoshop and an Android phone camera. They’re confusingly shot, and messily edited, and lack any of the trappings of a good story. The plot is stuttering, the character development is non-existent, and whatever message you pretend exists in there is not getting across. I don’t understand how that garbage accrued a fanbase, let alone attention from _Hollywood_.” Okay, you might’ve gone a little overboard with that. But Dave just chuckles, turning to face you.

“Yeah, I thought you might say something like that. June mentioned you were against partnering with me. I get it, though.”

Your gaze narrows. “You do?”

He shrugs. “Yeah. I mean, I made SBaHJ for _me_.” At your confused expression, he shifts in his chair. “I didn’t really make it with the expectation that it would gain a larger audience- it was mostly for shits and giggles. Even when the webcomic first got fans, I was surprised. But that was just a couple hundred or so. I didn’t expect the shit in here-” he taps his forehead, presumably indicating his mind, “to come across to anyone else.”

You stare at him, mostly unconvinced. “So you’re telling me that high-contrast drug trip of a film actually _does_ mean something?”

“Yeah. To me, at least. I guess there are probably other interpretations of some of my decisions, and those are perfectly valid- even your interpretation, which I’m guessing is that all my decisions were butt-awful and random and weird.” You duck your head at that, though he doesn’t sound accusatory. Mostly he just seems unaffected by it all. You guess he’s used to criticism at this point in his career. “But, if you want, I could explain some of it to you. So, you know, you get it straight from the tap.”

“But I thought you said if you had to explain your message to someone, that meant they would never understand it,” you say, pointedly, because you still remember the douchey things he said in those interviews, even if it doesn’t seem like the same person in front of you.

His forehead scrunches up, possibly taken aback by your slight hostility. “What are you- oh. _Oh._ ” He laughs, soft and quiet. “You watched my interviews.”

You nod, crossing your arms. “Yeah, some of them.” You’re only a little embarrassed, especially with how he’s smirking at you now. “But I don’t get it. I’ve only known you for, what, ten minutes? But I can already tell you act completely different from the way you did in those interviews.”

His smile drops as something like panic flashes across his face. He recovers quickly, though, like last time, and his eyes focus on you with the intensity of a mountain lion. You almost wish he _was_ wearing the shades. “Different how?” he asks, his voice carefully even.

You lower your gaze. When he gets that intense, it’s hard to keep eye contact. “Honestly? You kind of came off like a majorly pretentious asshole in the interviews, like you thought you were above the interviewers and everyone else and didn’t give a damn about their questions. I really fucking hated it. I hated _you_.”

You really need to learn to stop speaking your mind before you piss someone off. You guess you’re just lucky Dave doesn’t seem all that affected by your brutal honesty. In fact, his smile comes back a little. “That was past tense. Does that mean you don’t hate me now?”

You roll your eyes. “Only a little bit. I haven’t decided yet.”

He chuckles, shaking his head. “Okay, that’s fair.”

“So what’s the deal? Is it all an act? Are you trying to _impress_ the public with how douchey you are or something?”

His lips purse, his expression far away, staring wistfully at the fridge, of all things. When he speaks, it’s only barely above a mumble. “Sure. Something like that.”

You’re unconvinced. But, again, it’s really not your place to push it when he obviously doesn’t want to talk about something. “Well, I don’t know about the rest of the world, but it took me less than ten minutes to know I prefer this version of you.”

He gives you an appreciative smile, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Thanks, man. For what it’s worth, you don’t seem so bad, either.”

“Wow, I’m ‘not so bad’? With sweet-talk like that, you must have _no_ trouble with the ladies.”

Your plan works out perfectly- you’ve defused the situation, at least to the point where he’s laughing. Sure, it’s a light laugh, but you’ll take what you can get. “Okay, you want sweet-talk? You’re loud, and unapologetically, _rudely_ honest, but it’s also kind of refreshing and funny and cool. _You’re_ refreshing and funny and… okay, maybe not cool, but you get the idea. Is that what you wanted to hear?”

“I _think_ that was a step-up from ‘not bad’, so yes.”

“Awesome. Glad to know I haven’t lost my charm.”

“I never said _that_.”

He’s snickering now, and you think that means you’ve won this round of passive-aggressive half-flirting. Wait, _fuck_ , you weren’t supposed to _do_ that, you can’t _flirt_ with this dude. Time to perform a patented Vantas subject-change. They are no different from any other person’s attempt at a subject change, aside from being poorly executed and incredibly, clumsily obvious. “So, speaking of things we never said, we still haven’t really said anything about the reason I came here. So maybe we should change that. Possibly by… saying things about it.”

Dave is clearly trying to keep himself from full-out laughing at you, and doing a poor job of it, but you’ll give him an A for effort. “I think I may have just witnessed the most awkward conversation transition in the history of the world. I mean, _Jesus_ , Vantas.”

“Shut up. It’s been a while since I’ve had to do those.”

“What, _topic changes_?”

“Conversations.”

“Oh.” He grimaces, whatever mirth he was feeling dying down immediately. Well, fuck, you didn’t want _that_. “Right. June said you, uh, didn’t really visit them a lot while you were working on your movie.”

You sigh. “Fuck, what _else_ did June tell you about me?”

Dave shrugs. “Oh, just your entire history with her, including every mildly embarrassing thing from your childhood.” You blanch at the idea, which makes him laugh again. “Jeez, I’m just kidding. Don’t get so worried. She just told me what I needed to know- that you wrote a movie, that you were looking for a director, that you didn’t seem to like my movies. You know, the basics. And Terezi mostly insulted you, when she wasn’t insulting me. Just your average stuff, about you being a shameless, manipulative leech who only saw your friends when you wanted something from them.”

You groan, dropping your head into your hands. “Please tell me you didn’t actually _listen_ to that.”

“Naw, I know what Terezi’s like. She’ll be spouting bullshit and mocking her friends in her grave. It’s obvious when she actually means the stuff she says about people, and while she definitely didn’t seem happy about June helping you, she didn’t sound _completely_ motivated to kill you.”

“Oh, _great_. Glad to hear my friend only holds a _little_ bit of murderous intent towards me.”

“Then maybe I’ll add that, as far as I can tell, you don’t seem like a manipulative leech to me.”

You scoff, rolling your eyes. “No, she has a point there. I _did_ ignore all my friends for five years, just to finish some dumb script, as if that matters more than my actual fucking _friends_. And then I go to see June _just_ because I know she can help me. I think that qualifies as leech-like behavi-” You stop abruptly, nearly jolting out of your seat, as something lands on your shoulder. That something is, surprisingly, Dave’s hand. You look up to find his face closer than you expected, those bright eyes like a spotlight on your soul.

“Karkat. You’re _not_ a leech.” You’re not sure what the expression on your face is- probably something between shock and fear- but it makes Dave lean back, eyebrows knitted. He keeps his hand on your shoulder, though. “I know, I’ve literally only known you for twelve minutes or whatever, but from what I’ve seen and heard, you don’t seem like the kind of guy who would only make friends for his own benefit. I’ve met people like that before, and you definitely don’t act like any of them. So you got sidetracked by your project. Big deal. I’ve been there before, countless times. I get it. And I know… that sometimes it’s hard to socialize. Sometimes it’s easier to just shut yourself in and work on a movie for months at a time.” The corners of his lip curl down. Clearly this isn’t just about you. “June may not have told me much about you, but my guess is you have to be a pretty amazing friend to be able to get her help even after shutting yourself in for so long. And I’m sure Terezi would’ve stopped this immediately if you were _really_ a shitty person who's only trying to profit off of June’s success. So don’t call yourself a leech. You just happen to be close friends with a famous person who’s generous enough to help anyone who deserves it. And _you_ deserve it.”

Some of it is stuff you already knew, stuff you had already told yourself. But you weren’t sure you really believed most of it until just then. You guess it just helps to hear an outside perspective, making the same observations you are. It’s evidence that you just might not crazy. “Th-thanks,” you manage to stutter out.

He just smiles knowingly, taking his hand back, and you realize you were holding your breath that whole time. You _really_ hope he didn’t notice that. “No problem. Now, are we gonna talk about your movie or what?”

Right, that. “Y-yeah, we can do that. Where do we start?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> does dave have trauma from bro? of course he does hes dave strider. and also what homestuck character doesnt have trauma lmao  
> i told myself i would upload this on friday and then i forgot so uh here it is more than a day later :)


	5. Chapter 5

“Well, I’ll start with what June told me, so you don’t have to repeat yourself.” Dave rolls up his sleeves absentmindedly, as if he were getting to work on cleaning out his gutters, not talking about a movie. Well, that’s fine if he feels more in his element when it comes to business. Someone here has to be comfortable discussing your movie, and it sure as hell isn’t you. “It’s a romcom, and you’ve been working on it for most of your life.”

“It isn’t _just_ a romcom. More like a rom-dramedy.”

Dave blinks at you. “A rom-dramedy?”

“Romantic-dramatic-comedy. Actually, I’d say it transcends genres.”

“Yeesh, pretentious much?”

“You’re one to talk. But yes, I started it when I was twelve, mostly as a joke, until I realized I, against all odds, actually really liked what I was writing, so… things just took off from there.”

He nods, a small smile on his face. “Yeah, I can see why. I’m not big on romance movies, but I liked it.”

You stare at him dumbly. “Wait, you _read_ it? When? _How?_ ”

He shrugs. “June let me have her copy. I skimmed it, got the general idea of the plot.”

Oh, yeah. You almost forgot you’d left a copy with June. “And you liked it?”

“Sure. Again, not quite my style, but all the saps out there are definitely gonna eat that convoluted shit up. Call that baby Thanksgiving dinner, cause it will be devoured. An absolute gluttony-inspired massacre in the Cinemark. No one’ll leave the theater unsatisfied. Or alive.”

“Uh… thanks?”

“It’s a compliment, and you’re welcome.” He winks at you, and you think your heart stutters. “So, you wrote this awesome movie, then you went to June looking for someone to direct it.”

You nod, slowly. “Yeah, I guess.”

“And you don’t want me.”

“I didn’t before, but…” You trail off, looking up into those gleaming red eyes. You realize, thinking about it now, that you’re not so averse to the idea of Dave directing it anymore. Sure, his movies are weird as hell, but something about how he’s acted since you met him, along with what June said about him, makes you think he might chill on the insane directing decisions. Also, you can’t really afford to be picky. Fuck, you probably can’t afford any of this, at all. How much does hiring Dave cost? Does he even want to direct for you? Why didn’t you _think_ about this before? “I’m not so sure now.”

A gentle smile blooms on his face. “Well, then let me make my case before you make any decisions. Of course, if you decide not to work with me, I can help you find a better fit, but… I’m all for working with you.”

You blink, surprised again. “You are?”

“Yeah, obviously.” _Obviously?_ “I mean, as soon as June asked me to help her friend out, I was down. I kind of owed her a favor, though I still would’ve said yes if I didn’t. She’s basically my best friend, and I know she wouldn’t ask something this big if it wasn’t important to her. Even if you turned out to be an asshole with a shitty movie, which was unlikely given that you were friends with June, I would’ve been down to direct.”

“Uh… wow. That’s a lot of trust you’re putting in June. I mean, couldn’t this ruin your career?”

He snorts at that, rolling his eyes. “Karkat, my career is set. I have a wildly popular seven-movie franchise and then some. I am _basically_ on par with the Harry Potter series, minus the TERF-author. One bad movie wouldn’t change that. Not that your movie is bad, I actually think it has potential to be pretty huge.” Well, hearing it from someone else, especially someone like Dave Strider, certainly does wonders to inflate your hope. “And, for the record, you don’t strike me as an asshole, either. I actually think you might be _fun_ to work with.”

You don’t know how to process this. _Any_ of this. He was your last choice when it came to directors, and you were sure you would be _his_ last choice, too. “I just… I thought _I_ would be the one trying to get _you_ on board. Isn’t that how it typically goes?”

Dave shrugs. “I wouldn’t know, I’ve written all my movies myself. Besides, I’m pretty sure _nothing_ about this situation is typical.”

“Oh. I guess.”

“So, since you’re on the fence about hiring me, why don’t we make this a job interview of sorts? You can ask me whatever you want, I'll answer honestly. Should be fun, since I’ve never had to do a job interview before. Just regular news interviews, I guess.”

You shift in your chair, eyes darting around the room- Dave’s kitchen. Not exactly the kind of place you would conduct an interview in. The idea almost makes you want to laugh. “Well, I’ve never _conducted_ an interview before. I wouldn’t know what to do.”

His grin is getting to Egbert-levels of playfulness. “Then it’s a new experience for both of us. It doesn’t have to be formal, just ask me questions. Or you could just tell me why you’re on the fence, and I can address any concerns you have. I’ll three-sixty no-scope those concerns right outta the sky.”

“... Ooookay, dork.” You trail off, tapping your now-empty water glass- you have no idea when you finished that, but here you are- and trying to think of what to ask him. “Well, for one, I need to know how much control I have over production. I don’t want your weird camera angles, or your purposefully bad video and audio quality, or your obnoxious, in-your-face editing. I can’t have you making terrible decisions I don’t approve of.”

“That’s totally fine by me, Karkat. I only care about that stuff in my movies. This is your movie, your vision, and _your_ passion, which means that I’m not going to sprinkle in my weird shit in there unless you specifically ask for it. I might be calling the shots for the most part, but you’ll have a say in _everything_.”

“And you won’t try to change my plot to make no sense. Or trash my character development. Or make my dialogue stunted. Or edit in clips of you skateboarding.”

He snickers at that. “If I could actually skateboard, I would be tempted, just because it would be baller.” You give him an unimpressed glare. “ _No_ , I won’t change anything you wrote, unless I have a way to make something _more_ cohesive, and run it by you first. You’ll have full creative control.”

You purse your lips, trying to keep the whole ‘serious, stone-faced interviewer’ thing going, but you _really_ have to fight the smile threatening to take over your face. You’ve more than made up your mind at this point, but there’s no harm in teasing him a little more. “Do you actually have the skills to make a well-shot, cohesive, and enjoyable movie?”

“I would argue that my work speaks for itself, but since I know you don’t like that shit, I’ll just say this: I had to know all the steps towards making a mainstream movie before I could completely subvert them in my _real_ masterpieces. But, for you, I guess I could refrain from subverting them and just make a regular good movie.”

You raise an eyebrow at that. “Oh, this is anything but _regular_ , Mr. Strider. I have to know you’ll treat this movie with as much respect as me.”

“Of course, _Mr. Vantas_. I would nurture it as if it were my own child. I’ll let it suckle from my breast.”

“Thanks for the truly disgusting imagery.” You’re full-on grinning now, and so is he. “I think that’s all the questions I have for you. You’ll be hearing back from me in two to four business days.”

He gives you an exasperated look. “Lemme guess. I totally nailed that interview and got the job.”

“I’m not at liberty to say, Mr. Strider. I have other applicants to interview and-”

“ _Karkat just tell me I got the job_.”

You roll your eyes, scoffing lightly. “Okay, _fine_ , you got the job. You can direct my movie.”

He pumps his fist in the air, delightfully childlike. “Hell yeah. You won’t regret it.”

“You better fucking hope not. If this doesn’t turn out exactly how I want it, I imagine you won’t be making any other movies for a very long time.”

“Wow, is that a _threat_ , Vantas? Are you _threatening_ me?”

“Only a little bit.” You pause, your light mood fading as another thought occurs to you. “So, uh, I guess I should’ve asked this during our mock interview, but how much is this gonna cost me?”

Dave’s eyebrows lower. “Um, what do you mean?”

“I mean, if I’m hiring you as my director, I have to pay you, right? You’re a pretty famous dude, and random assholes like me can’t just-”

“Whoa, there, Karkat, slow down.” He puts one hand up, his eyes squinted in confusion. “You don’t have to pay me.”

“I… I don’t? But-” 

“But nothing, dude. There are about a million reasons why you don’t gotta pay me. For one, I’ll be getting a cut of the box office, along with you, and if I’m right about this movie being a hit, that’ll be more than enough. We’ll talk the details of that out with Terezi, or with my agent. But even if your movie flops, which it won’t, I’d still be fine getting nothing. Do I need to remind you I’m on par with _Harry fucking Potter_? I’m not exactly hurting for dough. Besides, I’m mostly doing this as a favor for June, because she’s my _friend._ And I’m starting to think _you_ are, too.”

Your mouth quirks to one side as you mull this over. “What about production costs? Don’t movies cost, like, millions to make? I can’t fucking afford that!”

“Dude, the studio is gonna cover that.”

“The _studio_? I have to get a _studio_ to agree to this?! They’re not gonna take a risk on me! I’m nobody! Fuck, I’m so in over my head, why did I _ever_ think-”

“ _Karkat!_ ” Dave’s hands are hovering above your shoulders, as if unsure whether he can touch you again. You guess you _did_ freak out the first time he grabbed your shoulder. “Man, chill! You gotta breathe. Anyone ever told you that you worry too much?”

“All the fucking time!” You take a deep breath, and that helps calm you, so you take another. Wow. You just mastered a basic human function. Congratulations.

Dave’s stare is more amused than worried, his lip twitching as he pushes down what you’re sure must be a smile at your expense. “You don’t gotta worry about the studio, or costs, or anything to do with production. I’ll talk to the people that need talkin’ to, like I always do, and I’ll get it done, like I always do. I’ll handle all of that business shit.”

You nod, trying to squash down your anxieties. “And you’re sure you’re okay with doing all that for me?”

“Like I said, you’re June’s friend and it’s no skin off my back. Plus I like you. I can tell you got _passion_ for this thing, and that’s the most important part. It makes me want to help you.” He’s fully grinning at you now. “So you can relax your cute little worrywart butt. I got everything covered, just for you.”

You ignore the word _cute_ , and you don’t blush- you _don’t_ \- instead clearing your throat. “That’s great. Really, Dave, I don’t know if I could thank you enough for this.”

“No problem, ‘Kat. I needed a new project anyway, and I think this just might keep my interest for a good long while.”

“I gotta be honest, this was the last fucking thing I expected to get out of meeting you. I just assumed I would hate you, and you would hate me. My best-case scenario was that you might tolerate me enough to put me in touch with some better director.”

He snorts. “I could still do that, you know, if you aren’t satisfied with my _abilities_. I got all the Hollywood director hookups. Sandler’s on my speed dial.”

“No, I think- wait, you have _Adam Sandler's_ number?”

“Yeah, I met him at the Oscars last year, we hit it off even though he won in the Best Comedy category over SBaHJ the movivie, and he invited me to his after-party. I still don’t remember ninety percent of that night, but I woke up with his contact in my phone, so I guess I must’ve been pretty fucking impressive. Do you want me to call him?”

Your mouth is hanging open a little. He would certainly be a huge get, especially for your movie- the star of _Fifty First Dates_ , directing _your_ rom-dramedy? It’s practically everything you wanted. Maybe he could even get Drew Barrymore to- no, what the fuck are you thinking? You already have a great candidate right in front of you- sure, you’re not the biggest fan of his movies, but you’re starting to get the idea that you really like him. As a _colleague_. He’s surprisingly sweet, and genuine, and weird as hell, and he’s willing to let you take the wheel on this. You doubt Sandler would cede all production decisions to you. Hell, you doubt you would even _meet_ Sandler- you would just give your script to his agent and let it be disassembled into something unrecognizable. Dave is giving you the opportunity of a lifetime- practically letting you be the director in everything but name- and you couldn’t possibly throw that away, not even for Adam Sandler. “No, don’t call him.”

“You sure? He’ll only cost you a few hundred thousand dollars more.”

Oh, yeah. You almost forgot about that part. “I’m sure. I’m already looking at the best person for the job.”

He looks taken aback, his cheeks reddening in what must be a momentary lapse of his emotional barriers, before he tries to play it off. He glances behind him, then back to you, feigning confusion. “Did Sandler just pop up in my window and I missed him? Well, I understand your decision to-”

You roll your eyes, shoving him lightly. “I meant _you_ , numbnuts. And I know you know that, so you can drop the dumb clueless act.”

“ _Me?_ Wow, Karkat, I’m truly touched. I would be more than _honored_ to acce-”

“Oh my God, shut up.” You were going for exasperation there, but you’re pretty sure your grin gives you away. “So… what do we do now?”

“Well…” Dave taps his chin, his mouth scrunched up as he puts on a show of looking thoughtful. He’s _really_ overselling it, too, gazing stonily into the distance, though he keeps sneaking glances at you. It’s crazy how ridiculously childish he can be sometimes. You met him today, not even an hour ago, and you’ve already lost count of how many times he’s done something silly like this. “We could possibly look over your script. I could get to know the story better, get a sense of how everything should be shot, maybe give you some pointers or corrections, if you want.” You raise an eyebrow at that, and he scrambles to correct. “Not that I think anything needs correcting. I’m sure your script is flawless! Maybe just some adjustments here and there. But it’s all up to you.”

Your eyes narrow, but you eventually nod. “I’ll allow _minor_ adjustments.”

“Right, minor. Of course. Just a few nudges in the right spots, ‘cause we ain’t just going for the gold, we’re going for the world fucking record, and sometimes a nudge is all you need to go from a six-foot long jump to a six-foot one-inch long jump.”

You snort. “Six feet? That’s your idea of a record-breaking long jump?”

“Six feet one inch. That inch is important, Karkat.”

“I’m no sports expert, but I’m pretty sure the long jump world record is eight _meters_. That’s like twenty-four feet.”

“No fucking way. I refuse to believe that’s possible.”

“Better fucking believe it, because it’s true. Look it up.”

“I will! But if you’re wrong, I get to make _slightly less minor adjustments_ to your script.” He grins at you, positive in his correctness.

“Is that a bet?” you ask snippily.

“Yeah, it is.”

“And what do I get if _you’re_ wrong?”

Dave shrugs. “My undying love and devotion.”

You squint at him. “What?”

“You heard me. You’ll get my complete devotion. All my love will go to you, Karkat Vantas. There’s no way I’m wrong, so why not?”

“Well, I’d say that’s a bullshit thing to gamble, especially since it’s vague enough that you could weasel out of it, but fuck it, I’ll allow it. I’m sure I can get some use out of a bet like that.”

“Not gonna happen, Karkat. I _know_ I’m right.”

Needless to say, Google proved him wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> not me having to look up the long jump record, being about as informed on sports as dave, and being genuinely surprised.


	6. Chapter 6

“This dialogue sounds clunky, we should change it.”

“What the fuck? No it doesn’t.”

You and Dave had moved back to the living room and have been working on your script for the better part of three hours. You’d spent the first hour giving an in-depth description of the plot, beats you wanted to hit, recurring motifs, character arcs that should come across, etc., and now you’re meticulously making your way through the whole thing, line by line, stage direction by stage direction, fleshing out every single scene with detailed set ideas and camera angles. It’s agonizingly slow, and every single one of Dave’s suggestions, however small, aggravates the hell out of you. You’re not sure if you hate or love the whole process.

“You don’t think so? Say it out loud, then.” Dave is sitting next to you this time, as opposed to on the couch across from you. He’s leaning back, his feet propped up on the glass table so his mismatched socks are on full display. His thigh is just close enough to graze yours, enough to distract you whenever it does.

You roll your eyes, sighing. “Fine. But don’t judge, I’m not an actor.” You clear your throat, sit up, and read the line he’s criticizing. “‘There wasn’t a time before this when I thought I might want anyone like you.’”

His nose crinkles up. “Do you not hear how awkward that sounded?”

You shrug. “No? It sounds fine. How the fuck would _you_ say it?”

“You just gotta simplify it, dude. ‘Before this, I never thought I might want anyone like you.’ It’s a lot smoother that way.”

“Well, Dave, did you ever stop and think that maybe Jordan isn’t the kind of character who would be _smooth_? Maybe I _made_ that line clumsy on purpose.”

“Okay, well now I’m pretty sure you _didn’t_ do it on purpose, and that you’re actually completely full of bullshit. I remember you _explicitly_ explaining that Jordan starts off as a smooth-talking player.”

“Fine! _Maybe_ I wrote one awkwardly-worded line of dialogue. At least I don’t leave typos in everything I write!”

“First of all, the typos in SBaHJ are _intentional_ , and they are strokes of genius-”

“There is _nothing_ genius about ‘beuaititful’ or-”

“ _Second_ , this is the fourteenth time we’ve had to majorly rework one of your lines.”

“Oh, kiss my ass! My awkward lines are _nothing_ compared to some of the shit you say in real life.”

Dave puts his hand to his heart, all theatrics. “Wow, if that ain’t a low blow. Frankly, I am offended and shocked by your behavior.”

“Please spare me the trumped-up guilt-tripping, Strider.”

“I ain’t guilt-tripping, I’m just talking facts. I am smooth like Skippy peanut butter on a baby’s ass, which now that I’m saying it _does_ sound a little awkward, but fuck it, I’m rolling with it ‘cause I’m just that _smooth_.”

You roll your eyes. “You’re about as smooth as sandpaper, and just as interesting to look at.”

“Damn, someone’s snappy today.”

“I’m snappy _every_ day. You just haven’t seen it yet.”

“Eh, that’s semantics.” He grins at you, soft and lazy. “You don’t think I’m smooth? I’ll show you smooth.”

“Uh, what are you…” Your speech falters as his arm drapes across your shoulders, as he leans close, _way_ closer than is necessary, until his face is hovering an inch from yours. You instinctively shift away, though you can’t move much with his arm around you.

With his free hand, he flicks his shades down, and now there’s nothing lazy about his grin. You suddenly get the distinct impression of a predator toying with its prey, and you don’t exactly like feeling like prey. “Hey babe,” he says, his voice low and flat, and it’s like a punch to the stomach, because he sounds exactly how he does in the interviews. “I know we haven’t known each other long, but I feel a connection already. Why don’t we see where this goes?” He raises an eyebrow, as if _that_ makes any of it better.

You barely stutter out a response. “ _Babe?_ I- N-no thanks.” You’re sure your cheeks are flaming red at this point.

He pouts, and suddenly whatever awful spell he was casting breaks, and he’s back to normal, goofy, not-emotionless Dave. Even if he is still too close to you. “Aww, that didn’t work? Guess I lost my touch.”

“Of course it didn’t work! All that accomplished was to make you seem like an asshole-y womanizer. Speaking of which, I would _love_ it if you remembered the existence of a little something called _personal space_.”

“Oh, shit, yeah.” He takes his arm away, pulling back so quick you’re almost not sure he was ever close to begin with. “Sorry about that.”

“What the fuck _was_ that? You were talking like a completely different person. It was creepy as fuck.”

He shrugs, staring at the table, his brows furrowed over the shades. His hands are frozen on his thighs, his grip tight. “Yeah, I dunno… why I did that. Um. I guess I thought it would be funny?”

“Well, it wasn’t.” You glance over at him, noticing how tense his shoulders are. Weird, you guess you must have struck a nerve or something. Another topic to avoid, along with his totally different behavior in interviews. You get the feeling there’s a whole side of him you’re only getting glimpses of, and you’re not sure how you feel about that. Time to change the subject, then. “So, fine, we can change that line, I _guess_.”

His smile is small, but still reassuring. “Mhmm. That’s what I thought.”

“Hey, what happened to the whole ‘undying love and devotion’ thing you promised me? Shouldn’t you be backing all of my decisions?”

“Karkat, please. That wouldn’t be love. _True_ love is not being afraid to call out your mistakes.”

“Wow. That was the sappiest shit I’ve ever heard. Why am _I_ the one writing a romcom?”

“Because you’re the one who actually likes them.” He flicks his shades back up, just to wink at you. The audacity of this man, you swear.

“Bullshit. There’s gotta be one romcom you like.”

“Yeah, sure, I like some of Sandler’s romcoms, I guess. But I haven’t really seen a lot outside of that. Probably because I don’t watch them religiously like you.”

You glare at him. “I never said I watch romcoms _religiously_.”

“You didn’t have to. You just give off that kind of vibe.”

“Well, _maybe_. But you shouldn’t knock them until you’ve seen a few more. We should watch some together.”

Strider groans, exaggeratedly. He seriously is a child. “Ughhhh. Do I _have_ to?”

“Think of it as research. You _are_ directing a romcom, after all. You should at least know what to expect.”

“Eh. Just admit it, you want an excuse to spend time with me.”

Yeah, okay, this is probably the fortieth time he’s made you blush since you met him. “That’s ridiculous. Why would I want to spend time with you?”

“Because you _like_ me, despite how much of an asshole you thought I was gonna be. And you wanna be my bro.”

“Right. Sure. Your _bro_.” You pour as much sarcasm into the words as possible.

“Yup. Don’t worry, though, your first Strider Bro-Sesh is on me. After that, you’re gonna have to pay a membership fee. And you’ll still need tickets for all the rides.”

“You know what? It doesn’t sound worth my money.”

“Okay, okay, what if I give you three free Bro-Seshes, plus a discount on that membership fee.”

You narrow your eyes. “Throw in free ride tickets and you have yourself a deal.”

Dave smirks, holding out his hand. “Deal.” You roll your eyes before shaking on it. “Though, since you didn’t specify how _many_ free ride tickets, I’m just giving you two.”

“Bullshit! I break the deal.”

“Too late, if you’d read the fine print in section 2A, clause 4, you would know you can’t back out of a deal. You’re stuck as a member of my fictional amusement park for the next seventy years.”

“Oh, no, you got me, Strider,” you deadpan. “My life is over.” You both start snickering at that. “Seriously, though, I’m making you watch romcoms.”

“Fine. But _you_ have to watch the rest of the SBaHJ movies.”

“Whatever. You don’t think I can sit through more garbage? I can _definitely_ sit through more garbage.”

“Hey, SBaHJ ain’t garbage, it’s a boundary-breaking, ahead-of-its-time masterpiece.”

“If by ‘ahead of its time’ you mean so far in the future that the human species has ended, then sure.”

“Exactly. This is the kind of shit that only world-conquering aliens could dream up. They’re gonna come in their mothership, presenting their highly advanced gifts to the human race, and one of those gifts will be a box set of their version of SBaHJ. Of course their gift giving is a ruse, because they decided we were far less evolved and needed to be destroyed, but right before they send the nukes or whatever, someone shows them my movies and they realize they were wrong about the human race. And thus Sweet Bro and Hella Jeff save the world for the eighteenth time.”

By the end of his spiel you’re staring at him as if he grew a second head, one that’s just as talkative and brainless. “You are, without a doubt, the weirdest fucking person I’ve ever met. And I know June. _And_ Terezi.”

Dave shrugs, grinning widely. “You know, that’s not a bad idea for my next SBaHJ movie. Super meta to reference the movies _in_ the movies, though I guess I already did that in the last two. I was just having writer’s block coming up with a plot.”

“None of those movies have plots, Dave. They just fucking stumble into a climax that gets resolved within ten minutes.”

“You know what, you’re exactly right. The whole ‘alien invasion’ arc should only pop up for half an hour, max. In the middle of the movie, of course.”

“Of _course_.” You roll your eyes.

“Thanks for helping, ‘Kat. I’ll have to credit you.”

“Please do anything _but_ that.”

“You sure? Just imagine it- creative direction by Karkat Vantas. You would get a whole tribute in the opening credits.”

“I am positive that is the _last_ thing I want, right after slowly dying in a chemical fire. You’ll have to thank me some other way.”

“Hmm.” He taps his chin, faking thoughtfulness. “What if… I help _you_ make a movie for free in return?”

“Dave. You’re already doing that.”

“Am I? Wow, that’s so _charitable_ of me. I must be a pretty cool dude.”

You have to put your hand over your mouth to keep it from betraying how amused you are by this dumb man’s idiotic antics. Really, they’re _not_ that funny, you definitely didn’t almost snort at that. “Way to show humility.”

“I know, right? Just add that on to the list of qualities that make Dave Strider the most awesome guy on the planet.”

“Sure. That _super_ long list that definitely exists and isn’t completely empty.”

“Awww,” he whines, pouting, and _damn_ it should be illegal for such a ridiculous facial expression to look that good on him. “You don’t think I have awesome qualities?”

You squint your eyes contemplatively at him, making a show of assessing these possibly-extant qualities. If you _also_ happen to be appreciating the view- _n_ _o_ , dumbass, how many times do you have to go over this? _Don’t_ get a crush on your director. It’s a _bad_ idea. Not only is it impossible he would even _consider_ you in that way, the amount of scandals or bad press it could bring to your movie, to you, to _Dave_ … no. You don’t want anyone thinking he took up your movie for sexual favors, because he’s not that kind of guy. At least, you don’t _think_ he is? You’re ninety-nine percent sure your assessment of him being a decent person is accurate.

All of that aside, you can’t help but be teasing in your reply- though, really, you’ve been teasing him throughout most of your conversations. Your flirtatious tendencies didn’t get to stretch their legs for five years and they want out now. Talk about bad timing. “ _Maybe_ one, if I’m being sympathetic.”

“Hey, I’ll take it. What would that one good quality be, then, if you’re the objective judge on this?”

“Obviously it’s that you’re completely devoted to me. Did you forget that?”

Dave cracks up, again- you like being able to do that, especially when his laughter is so nice- _no, Karkat, stop_. “Fair point. I guess I’ll just have to keep working on that quality.”

“Yeah, well you can _start_ by getting us back on track.” You gesture to your script, hoping that it might be enough distraction from your Dave-centered thoughts. Seriously, you met him _today_. Do you ever learn? “If we go off topic like this every time we have to fix one of my lines, we’re never gonna get this done.”

Dave sighs, and you think there’s actual disappointment on his face, for some indiscernible reason. “Alright. As you wish, Jedi Master Vantas.”

“Ew. Nerd. Don’t call me that.”

“Actually, I think in this situation you would be the Padawan? I’m the one training you on the art of movie-making.”

“Let me know when you’re done talking about nerd shit.”

“We’re gonna have to do a whole training sequence on Dagobah to teach you about the Force. Except the Force in this case is, like, scene blocking.”

“Is the nerd talk still happening?”

“ _If you only knew the power of proper staging techniques._ Wait, no, that’s Vader. I can’t be a Sith in this scenario...”

“Jesus fucking Christ.”

“Why can’t I think of any Yoda quotes? _Film or film not. There is no try._ No, that doesn’t even make sense. I lost my groove.”

“I’m more of a Trekkie myself.”

He stands up, faster than you can process, so that he’s looking down on you, eyes wide. “Say psyche right now.”

“Psyche. I just knew that would get your attention. I really do not give a shit about either of them.”

“Um, have you _seen_ Star Wars?”

“No? Not exactly my style of movie.”

“But there’s romance! _And_ comedy! That checks off both the romcom boxes. I’m adding it to our movie marathon list, right after my entire filmography, because it’s fucking _important_ that you watch such a commercial classic.”

You throw your hands up. “Whatever, I don’t care, now could you _please_ sit back down so we can finish working on my script?”

He grins, plopping back down next to you. “Alright, but just because you said please. And I guess the whole ‘undying devotion’ thing weighs in a _little_ bit.”

“It better. I won that bet fair and fucking square.”

You spend the next few hours working through the rest of your script, meticulously combing for mistakes. As much as your mind is occupied by it, it’s not enough to completely distract you from thinking about Dave. Even if you’ve only known him for a few hours, you already know you’ve got it bad. And the more time you spend with him, the more reasons you find to like him. He’s definitely attractive, not that that’s a big deal for you, especially given that you barely look passable on a good day, but still, his looks certainly don't hurt his chances. And he’s got that awkward charm going for him, and a bad habit of doing whatever his first impulse is- which apparently includes referencing Star Wars and putting on a medieval accent- but you find it endearing. It certainly dispels all of the impressions you had of an aloof, suave, calculating asshole. He’s far too friendly to be aloof, too weird to be suave, too in-the-moment to be calculating, and too nice, _unthinkingly_ nice, to ever be an asshole. And, as much as you hate to admit it, you actually find his strange sense of humor enjoyable to witness. Maybe even funny.

You don’t know how you’re going to survive spending months, if not years, working on your movie together if your crush keeps exponentially developing the way it is. This is always how it goes for you, falling hard for people when you know it’ll just end in disaster. Terezi still hates you, Sollux only ever texts you to make fun of you, and Gamzee… well, that’s one you don’t want to think about. The fact of the matter is, Dave is way out of your league, and even if he _did_ consider dating you, it would end, and that end would be some cataclysmic event, and then he’d probably never talk to you again and your movie would stay unfinished forever. You’re starting to think you were better off when you avoided all social interactions. At least when you were focusing on the romances in your script you weren’t writing yourself into romances with every interesting person you met.

There is, of course, another thing about Dave that’s been bothering you. His behavior in the interviews still doesn’t make sense to you, at all, but the fact that he seemed uncomfortable when you brought it up points to there being a reason behind it all. One he doesn’t seem very proud of. And when he was fake-flirting with you earlier, and he started acting like his interview-self… Something’s definitely going on there. You have no idea what it could be, but you know one thing for sure- there’s more to Dave Strider than you initially thought.

You’re not sure if that’s a mystery you want to solve.

About three-fourths of the way through the script, you realize how dark it’s gotten outside. You check the time and _holy fuck it’s seven thirty?_ You got here at _one_. You should be eating _dinner_. Now that you think about it, you didn’t really have a substantial lunch- just a granola bar you grabbed before leaving your house- and your stomach is complaining. Loudly.

Dave, who had been hunched over the table, poring over your script, looks sideways at you, trying to suppress a smirk. “You hungry?”

You shake your head, even as your stomach continues to rumble. “No, I’m not.” At Dave’s raised eyebrow, you sigh. “Okay, _maybe_ a little. It _is_ dinner time.”

He snorts at that. “Is it? I don’t really structure my meals around certain _times_. My dinner consists of me making ramen at three in the morning.”

You squint your eyes at him. “How the fuck are you a functioning human being?”

“Hell if I know, bro. Scientists have been tryna figure that out for years. Honestly, it’s no wonder I’m a miracle of science. I mean, have you _looked_ at me?” He gestures to his body, grinning.

You do your best to look disinterested, though you’re sure your cheeks are flaming. “The _real_ miracle is how I haven’t strangled you yet for constantly acting ridiculous.”

“It’s an artform, dude.” He straightens up, stretching his arms out in front of him. “So, what type of food you feeling like? I’ve got the best Doordash hookups for every food imaginable- Italian cuisine, Mexican cuisine, Lean Cuisine-”

“Hold on.” You put a hand up, your eyebrows scrunching as you try to process what he just offered you. “You’re not getting me food.”

He blinks at you. “I’m not? Why not?”

“Because it’s late, and I’ve already taken up half of your day with this stupid script, and you’ve been hospitable enough what with the whole ‘paying for my entire movie’ thing, and I was planning on going home to eat anyway.”

“Oh.” His gaze drifts downward, and you swear he almost looks disappointed. “You got, uh, family to get back to?”

“What? No. Didn’t June tell you I live alone? I have no social life, remember?”

“Oh, yeah. Hah.” He glances back up at you. His fingers are tapping on his thighs in what you’re assuming is a nervous tick. Why the fuck would he be _nervous_? “Well, you’re already here. Might as well just let me order something.”

You huff. “No, Dave. Really, I should just head home-”

“Come on, what’s the rush? It’ll be my treat. Besides, we gotta commemorate our agreement to work together. What better way than with a catered dinner party?”

“Ordering Doordash for two is not a _catered dinner party_.”

“I wouldn’t know.” The way he’s looking up at you, with a slight pout in his lips, is completely unfair. “It’s just dinner, Karkat. Please let me do this for you.”

Well, you can’t say no to that face, especially not when he’s using _please_. “Fine,” you grumble, “but _you_ pick where we order from. And next time we meet, you let _me_ buy us food.”

He smiles wide. “Awesome. How do you feel about pasta and never-ending breadsticks?”

“You better not be talking about Olive Gard-”

“You said _I_ get to pick.”

“I changed my mind.”

“Too late! I’ve already ordered it.”

“You didn’t even get your _phone_ out, headass!”

After some deliberation, you manage to get him to choose a slightly classier Italian place, though he grumbles about the lack of never-ending breadsticks, to which _you_ point out that you wouldn’t even get to experience said endless breadsticks unless you were dining in. He doesn’t exactly like listening to reason, though.

It’s only after he’s placed the order that you realize this is getting dangerously close to date territory.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hehehehe. i missed writing davekat banter  
> also, dave continues to be a shameless sugar daddy.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my christmas present to all of you. i did not plan for this to happen

_No, it’s not a date_ , you have to remind yourself, as you sit across from Dave at his kitchen counter, absentmindedly scooping up linguine with your fork. You’re just two colleagues, celebrating their decision to work together with some slightly-classier-than-average food. And wine. Dave pulled out a bottle of red when the food arrived- he argued it went with the whole Italian aesthetic and insisted you both have some. But you’re just _colleagues_. Just co-workers doing _work_ stuff. Just friends.

Because there’s no way Dave would think of you as more than that. Not that you want that- well, you definitely do more and more, but it’s such a bad idea you wish you could remove it from your head. You’re just trying _extremely_ hard to not enjoy this totally-not-a-date too much.

It’s a shame Dave makes that so fucking hard. He takes it upon himself to stimulate the conversation. Which, in this case, means a lot of icebreaker questions. This couldn’t get any more date-like if he tried.

“So, Kitkat-”

You interrupt him with a glare. “Don’t call me that.”

“Kitkat,” he continues, keeping his face as blank as possible and doing a poor job of it. “You got any other hobbies? Aside from writing romcoms, that is. Or watching them.”

“Fuck, I don’t know. Reading, listening to music, uh… I used to code a lot, but I sucked at it. Nearly blew up my computer once, and that’s _not_ hyperbole.”

Dave’s eyes gleam. “Okay, I’m definitely gonna need you to circle back to that story later, but we have more pressing matters. As in, what kind of books, and what kind of music? Fair warning, this could make or break our friendship.”

The half-serious tone he’s using almost makes you believe you could ruin this right now. Which means you’re probably screwed- your taste in genres is honestly a little embarrassing. “Well, this may come as a complete shocker, but I love romance novels.”

“Wow, who could’ve seen _that_ coming?”

“As for music… I’ll tell you, but you’re not allowed to make fun of me for this.”

He leans forward, elbows on the counter. “I’m not making any promises.”

“Yes, you are. Undying devotion, remember? That means no making fun of me.”

He rolls his eyes. “Ugh. You’re being totally uncool right now. So not fun.”

“That’s perfectly fine by me.” You take a deep breath. “Okay. I, uh, like Taylor Swift.”

Dave’s face twitches, amused for a split second, before returning back to neutral. “What era of Swift?”

“All of them?”

His gaze narrows, appraising your tastes, and you find yourself sitting still in anticipation. After a few seconds, he nods, and you let out the breath you’d been holding. “Respectable. I mean, not my style of music, but I can respect that you’re standing by it.”

“Does this mean I pass?”

“Sure. You just graduated from Cool School with a degree in Strider Friendship. That diploma will get you anywhere.”

“You can’t take that diploma away, right?”

“I don’t know where you’re going with this, but… no?”

“Great. Because I also happen to like a shit ton of other 2000s pop singers. Kelly Clarkson, Carly Rae Jepsen. Old stuff, too, like ABBA. And I love musicals- not just musicals with ABBA songs in them, though those are good, too.” Dave is grinning, and you’re pretty sure you’re lighting up from embarrassment, but you keep going. “Did I forget to mention my emo phase? I had an emo phase. MCR, Green Day, awful metal like Cannibal Corpse and Cattle Decapitation, a bit of screamo, etc. Is that enough information or should I keep going?”

Dave has his fist in front of his mouth, his eyes wide. “Dude, you basically just bared your entire soul to me. I think you’re good.”

“Great, then it’s your turn, Mr. Movie Director. I want to hear some fucking hobbies, non-movie related, and this shit better get as personal as mine did. You have a conversational debt to pay.”

He gives you a slow clap. “Well played, Karkat. Well fucking played. Alright, you want personal? Check it. I listen to rap, mostly, and some indie rock and pop and shit, and though I like to pretend I stay strictly underground, you will definitely see me indulging in mainstream all the time. I like to mix and write music, and you can find my old stuff on Soundcloud, including one track of fourteen-year-old me rapping, voice cracks and all. I was really into photography for a few years, and developed pictures the old-fashioned way in my own mini dark room. And I collect dead things preserved in jars.”

Your mind takes a good few seconds to process everything he said, then another few seconds deciding which part to comment on. Dave seems amused watching you struggle. Finally, you say, “Preserved dead things?”

He grins. “Yeah. I have a bunch of skulls and fossils and insects trapped in amber in my room. Got most of it from visiting natural history museums, some from barely-legal online shopping, and one crow skull from my old apartment’s roof.” Your concern must show, probably from your nose crinkling, and he laughs. “Don’t worry, I didn’t kill it.”

“That’s still disgusting. You just… took a dead bird’s head?”

“I waited for it to decompose first, duh. Actually, I have progress pictures I took of the decomposition. You can see the maggots-”

“Nope! I do not want to hear about decomposition. Stop talking about decomposition.”

His smile is only a little mocking, but he acquiesces to your demand. “I looked up how to clean it properly, of course. And preserve it. It’s in near-perfect condition, actually.”

“Don’t be offended, but I would be perfectly fine if I never saw that skull.”

“Fair point.” He pushes his empty plate away- you’re not sure when he finished that, especially since you’re barely halfway through your own dinner- and raises an eyebrow at you. “Does that pay the ‘conversational debt’?”

“Sure, I’ll allow it.” You watch him pour another glass of wine- is that his third or fourth? You suppose it doesn’t matter, it’s not like _he’s_ driving anywhere. You’re just concerned, is all. Although, he _is_ an adult, and a celebrity at that, so you’re sure he knows how to handle his alcohol. “Fuck, you ate fast. You got somewhere to be?”

He shrugs, leaning forward over the table. “I’ve always been a fast eater. That’s kinda what happens when you-” He stops abruptly, his jaw clamping down, and looks away from you.

“… When you what?” you ask, gently, because it’s obvious that you’re touching on a sensitive subject.

“Uh.” His fingers are tight around where they cradle his elbows. “You know, when you love food as much as I do.” His words are unconvincing, as is the forced smile that comes with it. But you’ll go along with it. For the most part.

“Uh-huh. See, I thought people who liked food prefer to _savor_ it.”

“Well, now you sound like Remy.”

You pause for a moment, completely blindsided. “Remy?”

“The rat from Ratatouille, duh. What other Remy would I be talking about?”

“I- why the fuck would you be talking about _Ratatouille_ of all things?”

“You mentioned food, so naturally I would think of Remy. I mean, I’m never _not_ thinking about Remy, he takes up approximately thirty percent of my brain space, that little guy can _get_ it.”

“You are talking about an animated fictional rat, Dave.”

“Are you telling me you _don’t_ think Remy could get it?”

“I don’t know what ‘it’ is! What the fuck is ‘it’?”

Dave smirks, and at this point the rest of his tension dissipates. You guess you have another topic to avoid… which is food. Great. Just don’t talk about _food,_ one of the necessities, around Dave. Should be _easy_. “Oh, Karkat. And I thought _June_ was naive.”

“Please don’t tell me you want to _fuck_ Remy the rat.”

“No! Ew, of course not, that would be so wrong. I just want to chill with him! Why would you even _think_ of that? Gross, Karkat. Your mind is absolutely _disgusting_.”

“Oh, fuck off.”

“Wait, do _you_ want to fuck Remy? Should I call PETA?”

You put your head in your hands. “Holy fucking hell. Discussion over, time to talk about literally anything other than fucking a cartoon rodent! Change the subject _please_.”

“Sure. You want a subject change?” He taps his chin contemplatively, looking like a total idiot in the process. “Well, we still don’t really know each other that well. Got any other icebreakers?”

You shrug, rubbing the back of your head. God, you need a haircut- you’ve gone a while without one, and it’s getting unmanageably long. “Uh, I dunno. Start with the basic stuff, I guess? Where we’re from, our families, what we did in our childhoods. You know, just stuff about our lives.”

“Our childhoods?” Dave has gone tense again, the color draining from his face. Fuck. You realize now, as you’re staring at him, that you couldn’t find anything about his childhood online- not on Wikipedia, not on IMDB, not even on Reddit. That’s _extremely_ unusual for a celebrity, which makes you think it was done on purpose. You wonder how many other subjects he’s touchy about.

“If you don’t want to, that’s-”

“No, it’s all good,” he says, though his voice is strained. He’s not looking at you, either, which is weird considering that he’s usually good at keeping eye contact with you. “I mean, I know it’s usual for that kind of info to just be out there for celebs. I bet you were wondering why I’m so hush-hush about it.”

“Seriously, Dave, it’s okay. You don’t have to tell me anything.”

“Hey, we’re gonna be partners, right?” He’s staring at you now, and you get a weird lump in your throat from his ambiguous wording. _Partners_. Sheesh. And then he goes and adds, “You should get to know who you’re working with.”

Right. _Work_ partners. You knew that’s what he meant, of _course_ you did, but still. Curse your imaginative brain and your hopeful heart and everything else that fucks with your feelings. “I guess so. But if it’s a sensitive subject-”

He waves your words away, giving you a forced smile. “It’s not. Honestly. I was just thrown when you asked because my life before being a director was so boring. I don’t know why anyone would be interested in it.” You’re not sure if he’s lying, but you do know that the reaction he had to you bringing it up couldn’t be explained by a _boring_ childhood. It makes you wonder, with his careful avoidance of details about his life, and his weirdness around food… all you can say is you hope he isn’t lying, because the truth you’re picturing is a scary one. “Look, I was born in Houston, raised in an apartment downtown, just me and my tw- and my bro." He tries covering up his slip-up by clearing his throat, but you catch it. You haven't a clue what he was going to say, though. "Was homeschooled most of my life, started the comic when I was pretty young, and made most of my friends online. Went to college, my films got noticed, and here I am.” He shrugs, in what you would assume is an attempt to act ‘casual’ about his clipped story. You know there’s more to it that he isn’t telling you.

There’s one specific detail that pops out to you, one that you hadn’t seen any evidence of during your research. “You have a brother?”

He doesn’t try to hide his frown when you say that. “Yeah, I guess I did mention him.” He’s quiet for a while, and you wait for him to add more details, but he doesn’t.

“Is that… all you have to say about him?”

Dave shrugs again, tapping those restless fingers against the counter. “I guess? I don’t know. He’s older than me. He’s, uh, super into irony. And puppets. And… does it matter?”

“Not… really? But you don’t have to talk about him if there’s beef between you two or whatever. I was just curious. I mean, this is what people do when they get to know each other. They talk about stuff, and they ask questions. Isn’t that what you wanted?”

“I don’t know!” He raises his voice, his frustration clear, though you have no idea why he might be frustrated. You think that’s the first time you’ve ever heard his volume go above a four. He sighs, running his hand through his hair. “God, you would think _I’m_ the one who spent five years as a shut-in. I don’t know how to _do_ this, Karkat. I usually just skip this part and go straight into the dumb shit, like _favorite movies_ or whatever. I don’t go into details on my goddamn _brother_.”

You put your hands up placatingly. “Hey, it’s fine, I already said you don’t have to talk about your brother. I don’t care.” When you see the crease between his eyebrows smooth out, you lower them, slowly. “Look, since you’re… unwilling to tell me more about your family, why don’t you try, I don’t know, asking me about mine?”

“Oh.” He shrugs, flustered, his cheeks reddening. “Yeah, I guess I should.”

“So are you going to do that or keep staring dead-eyed at me like a taxidermy fish?”

He laughs uneasily. You’re really trying your best to diffuse whatever tension he’s feeling but it’s clear he’s still shaken up by your route of questioning. “Yeah, okay. Um… what’s your family like?”

“Insane. Which I’m sure you already figured out from interacting with me. My dad’s a bit of a nagger, the kind that shows he cares, except it also rubbed off on my older brother, Kankri, so I basically had _two_ insanely strict dads. Kankri was annoying enough, but he also had to be a narcissist, to the point where everything he said came off like a sermon. My dad remarried after my mom died, so I got my step-sister Nepeta, who is only a _little_ annoying due to all the roleplay, but aside from that she’s mostly tolerable. And then there’s my deaf half-sister Meulin. She’s about to start college and she’s majoring in art now and that’s all you really need to know about her.” Talking about them sends a wave of nostalgia through you. The last time you saw them was the winter holiday- you at least made time for your family during your five years as a social hermit- but that was almost six months ago.

“Wow,” Dave starts, staring incredulously. “That’s, uh, a lot of family. Like, three times as big as mine.”

You snort. “Stop the presses, everyone, he can do math.”

“Shut up.” He bites his lip absentmindedly. You almost feel bad for him- he’s so out of his element here. “You said… your mom died?”

You nod solemnly. “Cancer. I was seven.” You don’t really think about it a lot- you remember your mom, and you miss her, but it’s an old pain by now. Besides, your step-mom is nice and welcoming and makes you feel loved and you don’t know if you could imagine your life without the Leijons as your siblings. You wouldn’t have had anyone to help you mess with Kankri.

“That sucks.” He says it simply, like he’s stating the weather. You’re kind of glad that Dave doesn’t try to be too sympathetic. You never liked the condolences, especially from people who never knew your mom, and you definitely don’t need that from him.

“Yeah. It was a long time ago, though.” You pick at your pasta- you’re pretty sure you’re not going to be finishing this anytime soon, and not just because you’re too busy talking to stuff your face. Your wine is still just-as-untouched. “Any other questions?”

“About your life? Uh, sure. Where’d you live? Did you go to college? Work?”

“We lived in New York for most of my childhood, until my dad married Didi. After that we moved around a lot, for her job, which is how I ended up meeting June and Terezi.” And a few other friends, though you don’t mention them, since you’re pretty sure Dave doesn’t know them. Then again, most of them are also friends with June, whose social butterfly tendencies convince her that all of her friends _must_ meet. You managed to mostly evade that, thankfully. Although, now that you’re meeting Dave, you wonder if you should’ve been more open to meeting her friends sooner. “Majored in literature at college, which was a huge mistake. I’ve only been able to get work in library archives since.” A thought hits you at that, as you’re brought back into the real world. “Actually, shit, how am I gonna balance work with the movie? When are we going to be able to shoot? I can’t-”

“Karkat, relax.” Dave grins at you, almost teasingly. “You don’t have to worry about it. I’ll cover all of that.”

You immediately shake your head. “No way in hell am I letting you do that. I have rent, groceries, bills. I can’t just- no.”

Dave rolls his eyes. “Dude, you’re not gonna be able to keep working a nine-to-five or whatever once we really start working on this thing. You won’t be able to pay for everything on your own.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “Dave. I can’t just let you pay my living expenses. That’s insane.”

“You work for me now! Which means I can pay you a salary.”

“I don’t _work_ for you! If anything, you’re working for me!”

“What if we cut a deal? If it makes you feel better, I can have whatever the cost is taken out of your cut of the box office sales.”

You sigh. He has a point- there’s no way you could devote the necessary amount of time to this movie without either sacrificing quality or quitting your job. It’s a scary risk, though- there’s always that nagging doubt that your movie won’t be good enough, that you’ll be left with nothing to show for more than a decade of work, that you’ll be left with an unpayable debt to Dave Strider. He says he’s doing this because of his friendship with June, and because he likes you and believes in your movie, but will that goodwill hold up if he loses millions to this project? It would only worsen things to have him pay for your every need on top of that. But still, despite the risk, you can’t say no. You’ve come too far, put too much into this script, to stop pushing now and take the easy road. “Fine.”

Dave’s smile is a little shit-eating, but mostly it’s genuine. “Awesome.” Abruptly, he stands up, grabbing his take-out container in one hand before looking at you contemplatively. “You done eating? You haven’t touched your food in a few minutes.”

You look down at your half-eaten meal and shrug. “Yeah, I guess. I just don’t have much of an appetite.”

“Makes sense.” He holds out his free hand towards you, and for a moment you’re confused, thinking he wants you to grab it. Your confusion must show, because he glances pointedly at your food, then back at you, smirking. “I’ll take your plate now, sir.”

You flush, embarrassed, and shove the plate into his hand. “You could have just fucking _said_ that, instead of just staring at me like a drunken lunatic.”

“But that would have been no fun. Also, I’m not drunk. Might be a lunatic, haven’t really figured that out, but not drunk… yet.” He winks at you, all stupidly charming- or charmingly stupid, you’re not sure which should be the modifier- and goes to toss your plates out.

“Oh, I think it’s pretty obvious to me and everyone else that you’re completely batshit psycho.”

“So you wouldn’t be surprised if one day I just snapped and killed forty people?”

You nearly choke. “Jesus fucking Christ, Dave! You’re not _that_ kind of psycho! I _hope_. Please don’t tell me you’re secretly some Ted Bundy wannabe or something.”

“More of a Charles Manson guy myself. Already have the cult following for it.”

“What the fuck.”

“I’m just kidding, dude, relax.” He comes back to the table, except he doesn’t head for his seat, opting to sit next to you instead. _Great_. “If you _really_ need assurance, then _no_ , I’m not that kind of psycho.”

You make a point of not turning to face him. “That better be fucking true, I’ve already dealt with one cult murderer in my life, and that’s one too many.”

Dave blinks, his mouth dropping open. “I- what?”

“Oh, it wasn’t a big deal. Just my best friend murdering two people in cold blood.”

“What the absolute _dick_ are you talking about?”

You wave him off. You don’t like thinking too much about Gamzee, not when that all happened so far in the past. “It’s a long story, and not one I particularly like telling, so I hope you’ll excuse me for not wanting to get into it right now.”

Dave drums his fingers on the table, clearly disappointed, but he holds it in. “Well, you’re definitely gonna have to tell me someday. If you’re cool with that.”

“Sure. Maybe when _you’re_ cool with telling me more about your brother.”

He pales again at that, but manages a nod. “Sure. I… can agree to that.”

“Great. I’m so glad we made another successful conversational transaction. Really solidifies our friendship.”

“Are you saying we’re friends, Karkat?”

“You fucking wish, dung-head.”

For some inexplicable reason, he smiles at that. Doesn’t he know he shouldn’t be allowed to do that when he’s this close in proximity to you? It could blind you. “That’s good enough for me.”

You give him a snide smile back, trying to make it look as fake as possible. You’re not sure it works. “So desperate for friends you’ll settle for anything, huh?”

“Speak for yourself, dude. I’ve got tons of friends.”

“Mhmm. Sure.” You glance away from him, down at the table, then to your wrist- you actually wore a fucking _watch_ to this man’s house, your attempts to impress are as laughable as they are unnecessary. “Wow, what the fuck, it’s _nine_?”

“Eight forty-seven, but sure.”

You glare at him. “That’s not the fucking _point_.”

“And this oh-so-important point would be?”

“It’s _late_ , dipshit. I need to get home.” You sigh, running a hand through your hair. “I have an hour long commute just to get back, fuck.”

“Oh. Right.” He leans back, folding his arms over his chest. His next words come out in a mumble. “Um. If the drive’s too long, you could just... crash here.”

You nearly choke. _"W_ _hat?_ _"_

“I said,” he starts, his face going red as he looks away from you, “that you could crash here.”

“I’m sorry, my brain must be fucking short-circuiting, because there is no fucking way in _hell_ I just heard you offer for me to stay the night here, in your home, where we just so happened to _meet_ for the _first time_.”

He tries to play it off with a shrug, though his blush is now travelling to his ears. And you thought _you_ were bad. “Yeah, that’s definitely the thing I offered you, just now.”

“Well, I think it’s pretty fucking obvious that, one, no, I’m _not_ going to be ‘crashing’ here-”

“Why not-”

“And _two_ , you are absolutely fucking out of your mind and I really fucking hope you don’t make a habit out of inviting practical strangers to spend the night _in your house_.”

Dave shakes his head, his brow furrowed. “You’re not a practical stranger, we’re friends.”

“Who met today. You barely know me!”

“Okay, but June does. If she trusts you, I trust you. Do you not trust me?”

“It’s not about trust, Dave! It’s just _weird_ if I crash here. And I have- I have _things_ to do.”

“Things?” He crosses his arms, cocking an eyebrow at you.

“Yes, Dave, things!” You pinch the bridge of your nose, exasperated. “I have to feed my dog. I have to go to _work_ tomorrow. I have to-”

“Okay, okay, I get it.” He puts his hands up placatingly. “Fine. You don’t have to crash here. It was just a suggestion.”

“And you’re a crazy person for making the suggestion.”

He shrugs, though his face is still bright red. He must be tipsy or _something_ , because nothing else could possibly explain why he would even _think_ to make a suggestion like that. “Sure. So, does that mean you’re leaving now?”

“I… guess. I really do need to head home.”

“Now as in _right_ now?”

You snort. What is _with_ this guy? “ _Yes_ , right now, Dave.”

“But we didn’t finish going through your script. I _gotta_ know how it ends.”

“I already told you the whole plot!”

“Well, I forgot.”

“There’s no fucking- never mind!” You're rubbing at your temples now, that's how fucking exasperated you are. “We’ll finish it next time, Dave.”

“Aw, you wanna see me again? How sweet.”

You’re pretty sure you growl at that one. “How is it possible for one person to be this frustrating?”

“Hard work.” He grins, devilishly sweet, leaning forward far more than is necessary. “You’ll get there one day, Kitkat.”

“I _told_ you not to call me that.” If you blush at the stupid nickname, you hope he doesn’t notice. To distract from the probable blush, you stand up abruptly, nearly bumping his head. “I really should go, though. Still gotta pack my stuff.” By that you mean stuff your script and your laptop into your bag, but that could definitely still be considered packing.

“Right.” Dave sighs, stretching, but eventually stands up. “I’ll help you.”

It takes you all of five minutes to get your stuff together, and it probably would’ve been quicker without Dave’s “help”. He spends most of the time either distracting you with conversation or holding papers above your head- you swear to God your height is a curse. You would accuse him of purposefully making it take longer if you didn’t also want to stretch your visit to last as long as possible. You definitely don’t keep thinking about his invitation to stay, even as you stand at the door.

“Wait, I need your number,” you say distractedly, pulling out your phone. “So we can arrange the next meeting.”

Dave’s smile is wide. “Wow, you’re asking for my number now? Taking this a little quick, huh, Vantas?”

“You’re the one who offered for me to spend the _night_ here!”

“Touché.” You exchange numbers, and, just like that, you’re ready to leave. He opens the door for you, bowing exaggeratedly. “I look forward to your next visit to Casa Dave.”

You roll your eyes. “Yeah, yeah, dork. See you next time.”

As you climb into your car, you can still see him standing at the front door, slouched against the doorframe, watching you. He raises his hand to you as you start your car, and you wave back. He keeps watching you as you pull out and drive away.

You spend the rest of the way home fighting a smile.


	8. Chapter 8

TA: you diid *what*.

CG: I FINISHED MY SCRIPT.

TA: not that part diip2hiit. the 2econd part.

CG: I… HIRED DAVE STRIDER AS MY DIRECTOR.

TA: ahahahahaha.

Ladies and gentlemen, your best and closest friend, and the person you hate most in the universe, Sollux Captor. He’s the only person you told about your script, back when you first started working on it, since he kept bugging you to hang out with him and you felt guilty not clueing him in to the reason why. He is also the only person you managed to text more than once a month.

CG: IT’S NOT FUNNY.

TA: iit ii2 fuckiing hiilariiou2. you hiired a 2hiitpo2ter to create your moviie.

CG: HE IS NOT A SHITPOSTER.

TA: lmao he defiiniitely ii2. have you 2een hii2 moviie2?

CG: I’VE SEEN A FEW, AND WHILE I’LL ADMIT IT’S NOT EXACTLY WHAT I’D CALL “GOOD CINEMA” IT AT LEAST HAS… PERSONALITY. EVEN IF THE PERSONALITY IS THAT OF A FLAMING GARBAGE PILE.

TA: kk you are about the 2tupiide2t fuckiing per2on ii have ever had the dii2plea2ure of talkiing two.

CG: WOW, REALLY? I WAS JUST ABOUT TO SAY THE SAME ABOUT YOU!

TA: ii’m beiing 2eriiou2 though thii2 ii2 a terriible decii2iion.

CG: AND WHY WOULD THAT BE?

TA: ii already 2aiid why but 2iince you clearly weren’t payiing attentiion ii’ll repeat my2elf.

CG: OH SHUT UP WE BOTH KNOW YOU LIKE REPEATING YOURSELF.

TA: that doe2n’t matter.

TA: what matter2 ii2 that you hiired a 2hiitpo2ter.

TA: and don’t 2ay he ii2n’t one becau2e all of hii2 moviie2 are clearly iinfluenced by reddiit deepdiive2 and niiche youtube humor. they’re modeled after that random, 2tructurele22, ab2urdly funny 2hiit you only fiind when you’re hiigh at two a.m. and can’t remember what your la2t name ii2.

TA: and they are, quiite liiterally, the mo2t well-executed 2hiitpo2t2 ii have ever had the plea2ure of laughiing my a22 off at.

CG: OH, SO YOU LIKE HIS MOVIES?

TA: of fuckiing cour2e ii do, diickbreath. ii practiically liive on the iinternet. you look up “iinternet troll” iin the diictiionary and there’2 a picture of me.

CG: OKAY, CALL ME CLUELESS, BUT I’M STILL NOT SEEING WHERE THE PROBLEM IS. IF YOU LIKE HIS MOVIES, WHY IS IT BAD THAT I HIRED HIM?

TA: je2u2 fuckiing chrii2t could you be le22 den2e?

TA: he ii2 a 2hiitpo2ter. hii2 moviie2 are 2hiitpo2t2. *therefore* he wiill turn your moviie iinto another 2hiitpo2t.

TA: there, ii 2poonfed iit two you liike the whiiny toddler you are. can ii go now?

You sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose. Sometimes you wonder why you deal with him, until you realize that, as much as you can’t tolerate him, you feel like at the same time he’s the _only_ person you can tolerate. It doesn’t make any fucking sense, but you guess your long history can account for that.

Maybe it’s just because he didn’t abandon you during your five-year stint as a hermit. Not that your other friends _abandoned_ you, per se, but their texts did become less frequent over time. Sollux stayed consistent, even if he was a consistent pain in your ass. 

CG: NO, YOU CAN’T GO, DUMBASS, YOU DIDN’T ANSWER SHIT. SO SINCE YOU CLEARLY DON’T KNOW HOW TO EXPLAIN YOUR REASONING LIKE A GROWN ASS ADULT, WHY DON’T I GIVE YOU A DEMONSTRATION. SINCE I’M SO MAGNANIMOUS I’LL EVEN GIVE YOU THE LESSON FOR FREE!

TA: god fuckiing damniit. ii don’t want two hear that 2hiit.

TA: iin fact, you 2hould take that 2hiit, pack iit all up iin a 2oundproof box, and 2hiip iit off two north korea two be buriied iin kiim jong un’2 nuclear bunker. that’2 how liittle ii want two hear that 2hiit.

CG: IT’S NOT SHIT, SOLLUX. SO, LIKE IT OR FUCKING NOT, YOU’RE GONNA LISTEN TO IT.

TA: ugh. je2u2 ju2t get iit over wiith then.

CG: GREAT. WHY DON’T I START WITH THE SIMPLEST REASON, WHICH IS THAT I’M NOT EXACTLY DROWNING IN HOLLYWOOD DIRECTORS OVER HERE. ESPECIALLY NOT ONES OFFERING TO DO MY MOVIE *FOR FREE*.

CG: SO, SURE, STRIDER MIGHT BE A SHITPOSTER, BUT HE STILL KNOWS HOW TO MAKE QUALITY MOVIES. HE *DID* GO TO FILM SCHOOL. HE HAS TO HAVE SOME LEVEL OF EXPERTISE TO KNOW HOW TO FUCK HIS MOVIES UP AS WELL AS HE DID.

TA: 2ure. whatever you want two tell your2elf.

CG: IT’S TRUE. PLUS, HE PROMISED I WOULD HAVE FULL CREATIVE CONTROL. HE ISN’T GOING TO PUT ANY OF HIS WEIRD SHIT IN THERE.

TA: unle22 that’2 what he want2 you two thiink.

CG: WHAT?

TA: he’ll 2liip iit iin there. maybe riight before iit relea2e2. he’ll do 2ome crazy ediit2 at the la2t miinute that’ll turn your dumb bad moviie iinto a ma2terpiiece fiit for a reddiit board. a.k.a. iit’ll be completely unrecogniizable and you’ll hate iit.

CG: FIRST OF ALL, FUCK YOU FOR INSINUATING THAT MY MOVIE IS BAD, BECAUSE YOU REFUSE TO READ THE SCRIPT, AND IF YOU DID YOU WOULD KNOW IT’S ACTUALLY KICKASS, AND EVEN IF IT WASN’T I DON’T SEE *YOU* WRITING A MOVIE.

TA: um of cour2e not ii’m not a fuckiing dweeb. and ii don’t want two read iit becau2e iit’s probably 2appy a2 2hiit and boriing to read, and why read iit when ii’m goiing two watch iit?

You blink at the screen, confused. Did you read that right?

CG: WAIT

CG: DID YOU JUST SAY YOU’RE GONNA WATCH MY MOVIE?

TA: yeah no 2hiit ii’m gonna watch your moviie are you kiiddiing me? iin what uniiver2e would ii have two be 2tupiid enough two not 2ee a real fuckiing moviie that my be2t friiend made?

CG: BEST FRIEND? THAT MAY HAVE BEEN THE SWEETEST THING YOU’VE EVER SAID TO ME.

TA: well priint iit out and frame iit becau2e iit’2 never happeniing agaiin ii broke out iin hiive2 ju2t from typiing iit out.

CG: YEAH, YEAH. JUST ADMIT YOU LOVE ME, BRAINSLUG.

TA: iin your dream2, molddiick.

CG: ANY-FUCKING-WAY.

CG: I NEVER GOT TO MY SECOND POINT, WHICH IS THAT DAVE WOULDN’T DO THAT. HE WOULDN’T FUCK WITH MY MOVIE AT THE LAST SECOND. HE SEEMED REALLY SINCERE WHEN HE PROMISED ME THAT, AND I’M USUALLY A GOOD JUDGE OF CHARACTER WHEN I FOLLOW MY GUT. I TRUST HIM. BESIDES THERE’S NO POINT IN HIM FUCKING WITH MY MOVIE. HE GAINS NOTHING FROM THAT.

TA: well fir2t off he defiiniitely would get a kiick outta me22iing wiith your moviie. iit would probably be pretty hiilariiou2.

CG: YOU’RE WALKING A DANGEROUS FUCKING LINE, SOLLUX.

TA: not two me, of cour2e. ii would be 2o dii2appoiinted iif ii diidn’t get two wiitne22 your oriigiinal, iincrediibly boriing ver2iion of the moviie.

CG: I’M ABOUT ***THIS*** CLOSE TO STRANGLING YOU.

TA: 2econdly, ii don’t exactly get “tru2tworthy” vibe2 off of hiim.

TA: when ii met hiim he ju2t kiinda 2eemed liike every other young famou2 per2on. a biit of a douchebag. liike me but iif ii triied to pretend ii wa2 cooler than ii am.

Wait, hold on.

CG: YOU *MET* HIM? WHEN AND WHERE AND *HOW* THE FUCK?

TA: once agaiin you prove you are the thiicke2t per2on on the planet.

TA: diid you forget our dear mutual friiend? you know, june egbert, the one who’2 2o driiven to iintroduce everyone 2he know2 two each other, ii’ve met her neiighbor’2 2on’2 teacher. you are the only one of our friiend2 who managed to completely avoiid that and you cannot iimagiine how fuckiing jealou2 ii am.

CG: IT’S EASY. JUST GROW A BACKBONE. THAT WAY YOU CAN SAY NO WHEN PEOPLE ASK YOU FOR STUFF.

TA: lmao that ii2 complete hypocriitiical bull2hiit comiing from you. you’re the biigge2t pu2hover thii2 2iide of the miilky way galaxy. the only rea2on you 2aiid no ii2 becau2e you had a rea2on two. and not even a bull2hiit one, but one you actually gave a damn about.

TA: whiich ii2 why iit would be 2mart for you two pull your head out of your a22 and lii2ten two me for once.

TA: that’2 riight, ii found that bunker iin noko, and now *ii* have all the 2hiit, and you’re gonna have to 2iit there and lii2ten to iit.

CG: YOU’RE A DUMBASS AND I HATE YOU.

TA: ii know. but ii’m the kiind of dumba22 who’2 u2ually riight.

TA: al2o, love you two.

CG: FUCK YOU.

TA: 2o a2 2omeone who’2 al2o met d2, ii thiink ii’m qualiifiied two make my own a22e22ment of hii2 character.

CG: OH MY FUCK. YOU CALL HIM "DS"? YOU’RE SUCH A NERD.

TA: 2hut up. you’re 2uppo2ed two be lii2teniing to the 2hiit.

CG: YEAH, YEAH. DO YOU HAVE A POINT?

TA: ye2.

TA: liike ii 2aiid before, he diidn’t 2triike me a2 much more than another celebriity.

CG: OKAY, WELL, I KNOW WHAT I FELT. MY GUT IS TELLING ME I CAN TRUST HIM.

TA: yeah because your gut has been 2o perfect iin the pa2t.

CG: FUCK, DO WE HAVE TO TALK ABOUT THAT?

TA: ii mean, iit’2 relevant. a2 long a2 we’re talkiing about people your gut told you to tru2t.

CG: THAT DOESN’T EVEN APPLY HERE. IT’S A COMPLETELY DIFFERENT SITUATION AND I JUST… I REALLY DON’T WANT TO TALK ABOUT HIM.

TA: fiine. then why don’t ii change the 2ubject 2iince clearly you’re not gonna lii2ten to rea2on when ii tell you dave ii2 out to get you.

CG: HE’S NOT, BUT WHATEVER. WHAT ARE YOU CHANGING THE SUBJECT TO?

TA: well iit’2 not a complete change iin 2ubject iit 2tiill iinvolve2 dave.

CG: GOD DAMNIT

CG: WELL, WHAT IS IT?

TA: iit’2 that eb and tz are defiiniitely tryiing to 2et you up.

CG: … WHAT.

TA: lol dude ju2t giive me two miinute2 and ii’ll explaiin. ii’m almo2t at your place.

CG: WHAT THE FUCK? WHAT DO YOU MEAN “ALMOST AT MY PLACE”?

TA: open up.

The buzzer to your apartment sounds, startling you so much you nearly drop your phone. You scramble to answer it, pressing down the button to talk. “Who the fuck is it?”

“Who else?” Sollux’s raspy, lisping voice answers back to you, unmistakable for the douche you call a best friend.

“And why the fuck did you decide to visit me right now?”

“Well, you said we would hang out when you were done writing your script. So, since you told me you were done writing it…”

You do the math in your head- Sollux lives about fifteen minutes away, and your conversation with him started at least twenty minutes ago. “Did you start heading over here as soon as I fucking told you?”

“Got an Uber and everything. Are you gonna let me in or not?”

You’re not sure if you’re extremely annoyed or touched by this stupid gesture. You can’t believe he actually wants to spend time with you, now that you’re free. Though, you can’t believe anyone wants to spend time with you, ever, so you guess your incredulity means nothing. You sigh, then buzz him in.

Less than a minute later, there’s two knocks on the door, and you open it to see a gangly, slouched figure. Sollux steps in, appraising you with a flick of his eyes, which reminds you you’re still in your pajamas at it’s three in the afternoon. “I see you haven’t changed.”

“Fuck you, I didn’t realize I would be having _company_.”

“I told you we were hanging out as soon as you were done with your dumb script. You should’ve expected this.”

“Well, gee, you’re fucking right! Of course you meant you would want to hang out the _moment_ I told you I was done! That’s perfectly normal!”

“Glad you agree.” He sinks into one of your couches, feeling free to make himself at home, just like old times. You sit next to him, taking a second to more closely inspect him. His eyes are half-lidded, the bags under them dark and deep, and there’s a seemingly permanent crease in his forehead. Put simply, he looks like he hasn’t slept in ages. Typical.

“Looks like you haven’t changed, either.”

“Bitch, don’t act like we didn’t see each other four months ago. Of course neither of us changed.”

“A lot can happen in four months. And to me it just looks like you’re still not sleeping.”

“Well, no shit, what else would you expect from an insomniac?”

“Right. I’m just worried.”

He scoffs, folding his arms and sinking deeper into himself. “Oh, _now_ you’re worried? You didn’t seem worried when you were blowing off hanging out with me, because you were too busy with your _script_ , but _now_ , when it’s _convenient_ for you, you’re worried.”

You give him an exasperated look. “Sollux, please, don’t pull that guilt-tripping shit. You know I was worried then, too. I’m sorry I was so busy, but the script is done now. Which means… well I won’t have a _lot_ of free time, once we start filming, whenever that is. But I promise I’ll make time for you.”

He sniffs disdainfully, clearly unconvinced, but then he shrugs, which tells you what you already knew- that he was just messing with you and didn’t actually give a fuck. “Whatever.”

You guess that’s your cue to change the subject. “So what’s this about June and Terezi setting me up?”

“Right. Anyone with two functional eyes would probably notice it, but since I know you can’t see past that bulbous cancer you call a nose, I’ll tell you what is clear as daylight to me. I don’t know if they planned this at first, though I wouldn’t put it past EB, but they obviously want to get you and DS together.”

You blink, slow, before bursting into laughter. Sollux gives you an annoyed look as he waits for you to finish. “I’m sorry, _what_?” you say, barely managing to choke it out between chuckles.

“KK, before you write it off as completely crazy, just think about it. EB gets you two to meet, asks DS to help you as a favor. She _clearly_ wants you two to spend some time together.”

“That- that’s crazy. Sollux, this is Dave fucking Strider we’re talking about. Why would June think I have even a _smidgen_ of a chance?”

“First of all, I know I call you a repulsive bilge-rat every chance I get, but you’re selling yourself short.”

“Wow, what reason could I possibly have for doing _that_? Oh, right, because I’m an absolutely abhorrent person!”

“KK, please, the self-deprecation is unnecessary here. I already know you’re a piece of shit, you don’t have to convince me.” You huff, opening your mouth to retaliate, but he puts up a finger. “You didn’t let me finish, though. Tell me, what exactly happened when you went to Strider’s house?”

Your nose scrunches up as you think back to… oh, that was yesterday. “Well, June let me in. We waited in the living room until Dave came down. He introduced himself to me, we talked for a few minutes, and… June and Terezi left.”

Sollux immediately perks up. “Really. They left. And why would that be?”

You shrug. “I don’t fucking know, they said they had stuff to do! And that we seemed to be getting along fine so they didn’t need to stick around.”

“So, they scheduled a meeting for all of you on a day when they knew they would be busy later? Doesn’t sound like something TZ would allow to happen.”

“I- I don’t know, Sollux, maybe something came up. Did that ever occur to you?”

“Or maybe, _just_ maybe, they wanted you to spend some time alone to get to really know each other.”

“ _Maybe_ , but if they thought I stood a chance they’re absolutely insane. I mean, let’s compare our bachelors. We have Dave Strider, the acclaimed director who receives a marriage proposal from a crazed fan every other week. And then there’s me, a washed-up librarian archivist with a twelve-year-old script and a hellscape of a lovelife! In what universe does that work out?”

Sollux scoffs. “Why don’t you ask those movies you like watching so much? It’s always the dumpy outcast who ends up with the attractive popular dude. _That’s_ the kind of universe that works out in.”

“What the fuck, I am _not_ a ‘dumpy outcast’.” At Sollux’s disbelieving look, you sigh. “Okay, maybe I’m a _bit_ of a dumpy outcast. That doesn’t change the fact that this is real life we’re talking about. We don’t live in a romcom, and I’m not ending up with Dave Strider.”

“Hold on, KK. You don’t actually _like_ him, do you?”

You freeze, silently shouting a million curses in your head. Were you that obvious? “I… it doesn’t matter whether I like him, because it’s never happening.”

“Oh my fucking God, you do.” Sollux starts cackling hard, bending over on the couch.

You groan and duck your head. “It’s not- stop laughing, asshole.”

He shakes his head, his laughter dying down a little. “I mean, I knew you had bad taste in men, but really? Sure, he’s attractive, even I can admit that, but he’s a bit of a dick. And he’s stupider than most of the people you crush on.”

“Sounds like you just described yourself, hypocrite.”

“And you crushed on me, too, didn’t you.”

Your face starts burning. “That’s beside the point. Dave wasn’t even an asshole to me. He was actually really fucking nice.”

“ _Nice_ , huh? Well, no wonder you decided to work with him. Why didn’t you just say you want to fuck him?”

“Holy fucking shit! It’s not like that!” You are definitely blushing bright red at this point. You swat him, if only to get him to stop laughing, though it’s not very effective. “I’m not like that. Which is just another reason why I’m never, ever going to date him.”

Sollux pauses, wiping tears from the corners of his eyes, just to level a confused look at you. “What do you mean?”

“I mean that, hypothetically, if Dave _somehow_ found my repulsive ass likeable, which is ridiculous to consider-”

“Absolutely.”

“Shut up. _If_ Dave wanted to date me, it still wouldn’t happen, because we’re making a movie together, and if we started dating and that rumor got _out,_ there would be scandals for both of us to face. Not just for being gay, though I know Hollywood’s plenty homophobic, but Dave might be accused of, you know, giving people opportunities if they sleep with him.”

“Oh. Gross.”

“ _Yeah_ , gross. He wouldn’t be the first director to do that, either. Not that Dave is that kind of person, as far as I can tell. But still. And of course there’s always the possibility people would slut-shame me for it, too. Because they just _love_ to harass people who are usually just victims of sexual abuse.”

“Jesus, I didn’t even think about that. Fuck. That definitely complicates things.”

You sigh. “No, it doesn’t, remember? This was a hypothetical that will never come to pass, because, again, there is no way Dave Strider would ever find me even _remotely_ attractive.”

Sollux smirks, giving you a side-eye. You don’t know what the fuck he finds so amusing about this situation, and he can fuck right off with that smugness. “You sure about that?”

“ _Yes_ , I’m sure, asshole.”

“Because from what you’ve described so far, it sounds like he might actually like you back.”

“Where- what-” you sputter, flabbergasted. “How the _fuck_ did you get that from any of what I’ve told you?”

“Well, DS is covering the cost of producing your movie, right?”

“… Right. But he said he’s doing that as a favor to June.”

“Sure. Spending millions of dollars as a favor to EB. That’s a pretty big favor.”

“It’s none of our business and completely plausible for two rich people in the entertainment industry!”

“Okay, then what about him giving you full creative control?”

“It’s _my_ movie, it’s only polite to let me decide how I want things done.”

“Even for a shitposter who has a specific way he likes making movies? Between that and him not being an asshole to you, it sounds like you’re getting special treatment.”

You roll your eyes, shoving Sollux again. “Look, none of this proves anything, okay? There’s still no plausible explanation for why he would like me.”

“You ever considered that, just maybe, you’re underestimating your likability?”

You glare at him. “No, and don’t even try to tell me I have redeeming qualities, because I know they’re not there.”

Sollux frowns, giving you a look, but your glare doesn’t waver, so he just sighs and gives up. “Fine. But there’s definitely more to this that you’re not seeing. You didn’t tell me what happened after EB and TZ left.”

“Oh, uh…” You pause, trying to remember what you haven’t said. “Uh, he offered me a drink, so we went to his kitchen to get water. He… convinced me that hiring him was a good idea.” You decide not to divulge the finer details- how you made it into a mock job interview, how before that, Dave had frozen up when you’d mentioned his behavior in the interviews. It seemed like something private, something you shouldn’t share with Sollux. “Then we started revising my script, writing in ideas for sets and stuff.” Again, you leave out the incident of him fake-hitting on you, because he didn’t seriously mean it, and because it creeped you out more than anything. Maybe Sollux is right about him being a bit of an asshole, and you just didn’t see it? No… you’ll have to unpack that later, though. “Then, uh, it was getting late, so he ordered dinner, and-”

“Hold on. He ordered dinner?”

You shrug, trying to play it off. “Uh, yeah. We were both hungry-” well, he didn’t really say he was hungry, though the way he cleared his plate showed otherwise- “so we Doordashed some Italian food… and he pulled out a bottle of wine. He refused to let me pay, too.”

Sollux raises an eyebrow. “This sounds like something a person who likes you would do. It sounds like a date.”

You avert your eyes, because you definitely thought it felt like a date, too. “It wasn’t like that. It was just a work-colleague dinner. Something casual.”

“One where you don’t split the bill?”

“Well, I’m not going to be working much in the future, thanks to the movie, so he’s… okay, full disclosure on this one, it’s going to definitely help your side of the argument. He’s insisting on paying for my living expenses once I can’t work anymore.”

Sollux facepalms. “Holy fucking God, KK, he likes you. How blind are you?”

“It really wasn’t like that, though! He wants to help me out, because I’m June’s friend, and because he considers me a _friend_ , too, so he said he was fine paying my rent or whatever so I can devote more time to the movie.”

“Karkat Vantas, I’m using your full name here because I need you to know I’m being serious. What Dave is doing is not normal friend behavior.”

You run your fingers through your hair, frustratedly pulling at a few strands. “Yeah, well I don’t know how else to describe it, because there’s no reason he would like me!”

Sollux sighs, his mouth scrunching up to one side, before he tentatively puts a hand on your shoulder. “KK, I think maybe you need to accept that there are certain things about you that someone else might possibly like. Even guys like DS.”

“I…” You gulp, and you’re pretty sure your hands are shaking. You know why it’s so hard to accept. Believing that Dave could like you means that you’re going to hope, which means that you’re going to just be let down even further when things don’t work out, like they always do. If you let go of the idea that Dave couldn’t like you, you’re going to fall in love, and the world is going to start falling, too. And then everything will crash when you inevitably mess it up. “I can’t do this to myself again, Sollux. I fucking hate _hoping_.”

He nods, because he’s been with you long enough to know exactly what you’re talking about, long enough to have heard every single one of your midnight rants, your panic attacks, and everything in between. And _this_ is why he’s your best friend, because despite the taunting and the vicious jokes, he’s always there for you. Hell, you’ve been there for him, too. “I know. We can shelve this discussion for later, if you want.”

You give him the best smile you can manage. You think you have something that’ll lighten the mood a little. “Is now a bad time to mention that Dave offered to let me stay the night?”

Sollux bursts into laughter again. “You have _got_ to be fucking kidding me. And you thought this dude just wants to be friends?”

“Shut _up_.”

“Hey, I think I can solve your little Dave problem. I have plenty of anecdotes about middle-school Karkat. You were in theatre for a few years, weren’t you?”

“Don’t you fucking dare.”

“I think I remember you having an embarrassing encounter with green hair dye.”

“Solluxander, you better fucking swear you’re not going to say anything to him.”

Sollux grins. “Don’t worry, I don’t actually care enough to tell him. If you piss me off, though…”

“One of these days you’re going to meet a gruesome, bloody death, and you’ll know _exactly_ who to thank for ending your pitiful life.”

“Ouch, that one hurt, KK. Your words are _so_ effective.”

“Oh, I can show you _effective_ , if that’s what you want.”

He snorts at that. “Please, you couldn’t hurt me even _if_ I wanted it.”

You shove him again, this time putting as much effort as possible into it, but he still barely moves. He grins at you, and you snarl back. “Whatever. I just don’t want to do it right now.”

“Uh-huh. I totally believe you.”

“Fuck you, asshole! I’m tired of you interrogating me anyway. What the fuck have _you_ been up to?”

“Nothing you don’t already know about. Just streaming on Twitch.”

“Oh, come on, there’s gotta be something.” And then you ask the one thing that you’re sure will get him off the topic of Dave- even if it comes with a price. “What about Aradia? Any new developments there?”

His nose scrunches up, and you sigh, settling into the couch for what you knew would come when you mentioned Megido. Sollux proceeds to rant about the developments in his questionable relationship with Aradia for the next three hours. It’s annoying as fuck, especially since you feel sidelined into just giving him affirming nods and ‘uh-huh’s to let him know you’re listening. But it’s nice, getting to just sit in your cozily warm living room with your best friend. You keep being reminded how much you missed just hanging out with the people you tolerate. Sollux, June, even Terezi. Maybe… maybe you should start paying your other neglected friends a visit.

For now, though, you’ll just sit and listen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> maybe one day ill write a solkat fic for real. until then, though, we can enjoy the banter


	9. Chapter 9

You’re at work, half-asleep and mindlessly poring through old newspapers, when you get an alert from your phone. You open up the text, because you’re bored, you barely have anything to do, and your boss isn’t around. As far as you’re concerned, those are pretty good reasons.

TG: hey karkat

TG: so i talked to my agent at the studio

TG: and i have good news and bad news

It’s been a few days since you met with Dave, and since then you haven’t really talked, only exchanged messages about the movie. You knew he was meeting with the studio today to talk about you, so the mention of ‘bad news’ immediately sets off alarm bells in your head.

TG: so which one of those do you want to hear first

CG: JUST GET THE BAD NEWS OVER WITH, I FUCKING GUESS.

TG: okay so she said that youre gonna have to meet her

TG: she is not the happiest about my ‘reckless money-spending habits’ so she wants to make sure youre a ‘good investment’

TG: her words not mine

CG: FUCK. AND THE GOOD NEWS?

TG: the good news is that shes willing to see you at all

TG: i may have used a hell of a lot of convincing to get her to agree

TG: like so much convincing i coulda talked an atheist into believing in god

CG: SHOULD I BE WORRIED?

TG: naw dude i got your back

TG: but also yes because shes a little intense and shes predisposed to not like you just by virtue of the fact that im letting you do this for free

TG: but i promise im in your corner one hundred percent if she tries to say no i got fifteen different ways to get her to change her mind and one of thems gotta work eventually

CG: ALRIGHT, I’M SETTING MY WORRY LEVEL TO MAXIMUM! THANKS, DAVE.

TG: seriously dont sweat it dude i can negotiate with her

TG: i have my ways

TG: and they totally dont involve blackmail or assassination

CG: GREAT. THAT JUST WORRIES ME MORE. I WAS ALREADY ON THE MAXIMUM LEVEL, DAVE. YOU’VE MANAGED TO MAKE MY WORRY ASCEND TO THE FOURTH STRESS DIMENSION.

TG: aw hell yeah that sounds cool

TG: you look to your left and see a tesseract made of the suffering of human beings

TG: and over on the right we got one of those optical illusion elephants with fucked up feet except this elephant just got his fifteen day chip from anger management

TG: and in this third direction which is unfathomable to humankind we have an escher painting

TG: its not made of emotions or stress or anything its just an escher painting

CG: DAVE THIS ISN’T HELPING. IN FACT I WOULD SAY IT’S DOING THE EXACT OPPOSITE OF HELPING.

TG: sorry dude

TG: just got lost in my hellscape of a fourth dimension

TG: well whatever the case i assure you youre gonna be fine

TG: look ill set up the meeting with the agent just show up and charm her with that dazzling personality you have

CG: YEAH, BECAUSE THAT’LL GO *FANTASTICALLY*.

TG: okay then backup plan just charm her with your script at least we know thats dependable

CG: AGAIN, I CAN’T THANK YOU ENOUGH, DAVE. YOU *REALLY* KNOW HOW TO REASSURE A PERSON.

CG: NOT.

TG: shut the fuck up dude okay im trying

TG: im not exactly well versed in reassurance

CG: *SIGH.* YOU’RE RIGHT. I’M BEING A DICK. THANKS FOR DOING THIS FOR ME. I MEAN THAT SINCERELY.

TG: no problemo my dude

TG: i get youre stressed i mean i am too

TG: i really want this to work out for you

You want to ask why he cares so much. You want to ask why he would want it to work out when it means he’ll probably lose millions of dollars. You want to ask, as stupid as it may sound, if he likes you.

You fail to ask any of those questions, though.

CG: YEAH, I KNOW.

TG: when are you free

CG: LITERALLY WHENEVER. YOU KNOW THIS.

TG: aha yeah i guess you dont have much to do now that youre done writing

TG: you still have work though right

CG: YEAH. BUT THAT’S ONLY TILL FIVE OR SIX ON MOST DAYS.

TG: sick

TG: well she can do next tuesday does that work for you

CG: I *JUST* TOLD YOU I'M FREE EVERY FUCKING DAY.

CG: SO YES, TUESDAY WORKS.

TG: awesome ill see you then try not to die from a stress induced heart attack or anything bcuz i would be real bummed

CG: I’LL TRY MY BEST. SEE YOU.

Your brain jumps on that last text he sent you, over-analyzing like a high school literature teacher with nothing but a copy of Macbeth and a handful of steroids. You can’t help but remember all those seemingly absurd deductions Sollux made, the ones that make more sense the more you think about them.

You don’t know how you’re going to survive.

~~~

You’re sitting in the fancy waiting room of the talent agency’s building, your nerves a complete wreck. Dave told you when to arrive, and you came twenty minutes early to make a good impression, but it’s been almost thirty minutes now and Dave still isn’t here. He hasn’t answered any of your frantic, panic-induced texts either. Needless to say you’re sweating buckets.

“Mr. Vantas?” You look up at the receptionist you checked in with earlier, who’s giving you a reassuring smile. He must be able to tell you’re freaking out, though you’re not sure how- was it the excessive sweating or the constant nervous bouncing of your leg? “I know Mr. Strider isn’t here, but we’re ready to get the meeting started now if you would like.”

You nod and stand up, though you’d much rather wait for Dave. You can’t wait forever, though, because you’re sure there are other appointments and clients after you. Besides, you can do this, right? You can make a good impression.

You suddenly wish you had planted your ass right in that dumb cushiony chair and stuck it out for Dave, but it was too late- the receptionist is already walking away, leading you deeper into the posh interior of the building. From the surprisingly comfy chairs in the waiting room to the bright, abstract art, everything about the building is welcoming, but you still feel uneasy. Especially now as you head towards the main office, which houses one of the biggest talent agents in the industry. Getting an appointment with her was no cakewalk, and yet here you were, with a free pass straight to the top, and no safety harness in case you get thrown back down. You _really_ hope Dave comes soon.

The receptionist opens the door, poking his head in to say something to whoever’s inside, before popping back out and ushering you in. As soon as you step inside, the door shuts behind you, leaving you alone with the woman behind the desk.

She’s dressed for business, with a light blue pencil skirt and matching suit jacket, complete with built-in shoulder pads, which, if your conversations with Kanaya are anything to go by, aren’t still in style. Her hair is short and perfectly styled, and she stares at you through round, thin-framed glasses. Although she smiles warmly at you, standing up and offering her hand, the intensity in her eyes never wavers. Her voice has a round softness to it, like melting butter. “Hello, you must be Mr. Karkat Vantas! I’m Jane Crocker.”

You step forward, taking her hand and shaking it, hoping to God she can’t feel how sweaty your palms are. Time to act as professionally as you can. “Hello, Ms. Crocker.”

“Please, call me Jane.” She gestures for you to sit down, across the desk from her, and she does the same. “Such a pity Strider is so late. He’s always had a problem with punctuality. It’s a wonder I still booked him after he missed our first meeting by a good ten minutes! I don’t usually cotton to lateness.”

You nod, going for a smile- is a smile right in this situation? _fuck_ \- though you still feel shaky. “Yeah, I tried text- _contacting_ him, but he hasn’t answered.”

She tuts, shaking her head. “Typical. Oh well, it’s no matter! We’re not so much concerned with him, now, are we? This meeting’s about _you_. So why don’t you tell me about yourself?”

You blink. “A-about myself? You don’t want to hear about my movie?”

“Goodness, no. Well, we’ll get to that, but first I need to know who I’m working with! You can relax, Mr. Vantas, this really isn’t a very formal meeting.”

“It’s just-” You pause, reconsidering. You were about to bring up what Dave told you, that she had apparently expressed distaste at the idea of him working with you, but on second thought maybe it would be better _not_ to remind her of that. “You’re right, I’m just a little on edge. I never thought I’d get this far, let alone get a chance to work with a director as highly acclaimed as _Dave Strider_. And meeting _you_? I mean, you work for some of the biggest names in Hollywood.”

She laughs, light and tinkling and somehow false. “You flatter me. But, really, you don’t have to worry. Why don’t you just tell me a bit about yourself?”

“A-alright.” You take a deep breath, straightening up, trying to dispel your worries. It’s just a chat. You can talk about yourself. It’ll all be okay. “I was born in New York, though we moved around a lot after- after my dad remarried.” Well, shit, you’re already stumbling. Hard to talk about your childhood without mentioning your dead mom, huh? “I have one brother, a step-sister, and a half-sister. I like reading and watching movies, mostly romcoms, hence the-” You gesture vaguely, but Jane’s expression doesn’t waver. “You know, the script. Have you- did Dave give you a copy?”

“Oh dear, I suppose he didn’t. He told me you wrote a romantic comedy, though.”

You reach into your trusty bag- your tendency to over-prepare hasn’t failed you yet. “Oh, well I have an extra-”

“No need, Mr. Vantas. Why don’t you continue your story?”

Well, that can’t be a good sign. You swallow the protests growing in you, because you know that won’t help the situation, and try to keep going. “Right. Um. I was into theatre for a few years before I realized I was definitely not suited for the stage. That’s about when I started writing, first as a joke, until I found myself invested in what I was doing. I worked on writing a movie for a long time, until I got to college and all my free time evaporated. Graduated with a BA in literature, got a job at a local library, and pulled my old script out again. Five years later… I’m here.”

“I see.” She doesn’t say anything else for a while, just staring at you with those piercing blue eyes. You try, and fail, not to shift too much. “So what _drives_ you?”

You blink, flattening your palms on your thighs to keep them from jittering too much. “Sorry, what?”

“What do you _want_ from all this? What motivates your passion?”

“What kind of fucking bullshit question is that?” you snap, before you can slam the brakes in your head. Seriously, do you _have_ to damage every relationship you have with your filter-less mouth?

Thankfully, Jane only seems a little taken aback. She might actually be _smiling_. “Why, it’s one I believe you’re perfectly capable of answering. I think it’s only fair for me to know what your goal is if you’re going to be working with my client and, by extension, me.”

You shrug, uncomfortable, because you haven’t concretely thought about what you _want_ from this before. “I don’t know, maybe just to make a good movie! Or to get recognition for a decade of work.” Then you pause, because that doesn’t feel quite right. When you started this, and when you picked it up five years ago, it wasn’t because you wanted a good movie or _recognition_. Sure, that was part of it, but really… “I want to put some hope out into the world. Show people that things can get better, that they can find love. And yeah, that’s about the cheesiest, most fake-ass sounding reason you’ve probably ever heard, but it’s true, and I know it, because I’ve been in that place where something as simple as a movie is all that keeps you going.”

Well, shit. You did not mean to get that deep with Jane Crocker. To your credit, though, it seems to have been the right answer, because she nods. “That’s an awfully noble reason to be doing this, Karkat. I admire your spunk. I’m open to letting Strider work with you. Of course, we’ll discuss more on the cost of the production and our cuts of the box office revenue, but I’ll have to speak with the studio heads first. We’ll set another meeting after that, and hopefully by then Strider will have resolved his issue with arriving on time.”

You think it takes you a full second for it all to sink in. “So you- we- that’s it? We’re working together? I’m making a movie?”

“Yes. Again, there’s a lot of paperwork and other formalities to get through, but you’re as good as signed.”

“I- _fuck_ , that’s really good news to hear. Jesus, do you know how completely stressed out of my mind I was? Thank you for this opportunity, Jane, seriously. Holy _fuck_.” Okay, you’re rambling a bit, maybe you should reign it in, but you feel _ecstatic_. This was so much easier than you thought it would be.

Jane smiles, all dimples and bright white teeth. “It’s my pleasure. Now, I have more appointments soon, so you can hurry along now. The agency should get in contact with you in three to five business days to coordinate our next meeting.”

“Oh- okay.” You stand up, awkwardly half-bow, before realizing you probably look stupid, and stick out your hand to shake hers again. “Thanks again, Jane.”

“Of course. Off you go, now. Bye!”

Your departure is made a little hasty- as soon as you step out of Jane’s office, the secretary appears in a blur and ushers you to the front door of the building- but you hardly notice, floating in a haze of disbelief on the walk to your car. You’re so lost in your head, you almost don’t notice Dave about to barrel straight into you.

“Karkat! Shit, is the meeting over already? I’m sorry, I didn’t think I was going to be this late, I just lost track of time and- _fuck_ , did it go okay? She didn’t turn you down, did she? Fuck, we’ll go back in and convince-”

“Dave,” you say, trying to cut off his ramble. And then, when he doesn't stop, “ _Dave!_ ”

That gets his attention. He tapers off, his mouth closing slowly, and in that brief moment of silence, as the haze you were in drifts away, you take note of Dave’s appearance. His hair is disheveled, not in the careful way it was when you first met him, but frizzy and sticking up in weird places, as if he vaulted out of bed without even glancing in a mirror. He’s wearing sweatpants and a hoodie again, and his shades are over his eyes, so you can’t get as good a read on them. His arms are crossed, his posture hunched and stiff, and he’s _jittery_. Sure, you had noticed his fingers flitting on his leg or the table the first time you met, but now it seems even more frantic, the way they dance on his arms, tapping a tension-wracked tarantella. He’s wound up, and you’re not sure why.

“Where the fuck _were_ you?” He opens his mouth, but you shake your head, waving away the question with your hand. “Fuck it, it doesn’t matter. I didn’t really need you, anyway.” Kind of a lie- you definitely would have been less freaked out if he’d been there, but he doesn’t need to know that. “Jane agreed to let me work with you.”

“She- she did? Really? Fuck, that’s crazy. I mean, it’s _awesome_ , but I didn’t expect that.”

You scowl, a little put-off by his phrasing. “Yeah, she did, no thanks to you! What, you didn’t think I could do it alone? This may come as a shock to you, but I _do_ actually know how to handle myself!”

He flinches into himself, and it’s then you realize that your words were probably a little harsh. So what? He deserves it for showing up late. “Sorry, Karkat, I didn’t mean-”

“No, you know what? Fuck that!” The anger in you heats to a boil, bubbling to the top, and you find yourself practically yelling at him in a half-empty parking lot. “You had me so fucking worked up, worried that I would fucking fail to impress at this _super important meeting_ , afraid that Crocker would take one look at me and dismiss me like a moth-eaten shirt at a flea market, and I go in there with my shit personality and everything and I ace it! Without you! And then of course you show up twenty minutes late looking like you fell out of bed. You could’ve just told me you didn’t give a fuck about this!”

He recoils as if you slapped him. His voice comes out small. “I care, Karkat. You know I care.”

“I’m not sure you do!” you snap, hands clenched into tight fists. “You don’t fucking _act_ like you care!”

“I’m sorry.” He takes a ragged breath, one hand unconsciously clutching at the mess of his hair as he stares at the ground, and when he speaks again, he sounds hollowed out. “Today was a _bad_ day.”

Your righteous indignation dries up almost instantly, because you recognize his tone- it’s one you’ve heard in yourself, one you’ve heard in others. You know he doesn’t mean the kind of bad day most well-adjusted people have on a regular basis, ones where you get stuck in traffic or have coffee spilled on your favorite shirt or have to listen to your coworker complain about their wife for four hours. He means the kind of bad day that’s a lot less common, ones where it feels wrong to breathe, where every thought is sharp inside your head, where leaving your room feels like a herculean task. You immediately regret blowing up at him. Curse your stupid tendency to yell without thinking.

“Oh. Oh shit, Dave, I didn’t know. Fuck, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have yelled.”

If anything, he shrinks into himself more, and it suddenly hits you how absurd this whole situation is. You just _yelled_ at Dave Strider, a _movie director_ , the person who, a week ago, you thought was some unfeeling, condescending jerk. And now he’s barely keeping from breaking down in front of you. How did you get here? “No, you’re right. I should’ve been here. I _promised_ I would be.”

“Fuck that, you’re completely fucking excused from breaking that promise, I don’t give a fuck! You’re clearly not in a good mental state.”

“I could’ve at least _texted_ you.”

“It’s fine.”

“It took me so long to get out of bed. I just- _couldn’t_.” His voice breaks in a moment of frustration, and he finally looks up at you, though you still can’t see his eyes. “I’m so fucking _pathetic_.”

“With all due respect, Dave, shut the fuck up.” His brow creases at that, but you just shake your head and gently grab his arm. “I shouldn’t have blown up at you. I wasn’t really angry; I was just worried the meeting wouldn’t go well without you. But it did, so it doesn’t matter, because I didn’t actually need you.” Okay, you’ll be the first to admit you’re not good with words. Dave certainly looks as if he’s thinking the same thing. “Fuck. What I mean is, it’s not a big deal, and I’m not mad at you. I know you care about this, so I should’ve known you had a good reason for missing the meeting. And you’re not pathetic for trying to deal with… whatever you’re dealing with. I’ve been there. It’s hard. It doesn’t make you weak to admit that.”

Dave exhales, slowly, and you think you see some of the panicked, guilt-induced tension leave his shoulders. You hope that’s what you see, at least. “Still, I’m sorry.”

You squeeze his arm, once, before letting go, suddenly self-conscious about feeling up his bicep. God, you’re a wreck. “Don’t worry about it, really. Honestly, with how much money you’re spending on my movie, you can consider any accidental fuck-ups automatically forgiven. It’s only fair.”

He laughs softly at your poorly-attempted joke. “Didn’t know I could just buy people’s forgiveness. I’ll keep that in mind next time I piss you off.”

“Well, don’t get too ahead of yourself, Strider. I’ll still want a heartfelt apology before I can forgive you. You have to actually be _sorry_ for it.”

“I’m gonna have to draw the line there, Karkat. Dave Strider doesn't apologize. That’s non-negotiable.”

“You literally apologized to me less than thirty seconds ago.”

“Did I? I think I would remember doing that. You sure that was me?”

“Fuck you.”

You both start chuckling at that, before Dave glances behind you. “Shit. Do I need to go talk to Jane?”

You shrug. “She said she’s scheduling a meeting for all of us to meet with the studio, so I don’t think so.”

He sags into his slumped posture. “Thank God, because I don’t think I could take talking to her right now. She is _intense_. I need at least fifty percent of my energy to deal with her, and right now I’m on low-power mode at three percent.”

Well, at least he seems _slightly_ better. Even if he’s still got that tired, defeated tilt to his mouth. “Yeah, she knows how to fucking take charge of a conversation, I’ll give her that.”

“So that means you’re heading out, then. Guess I’ll call another Uber.”

You blink, confused. “Hold on. You took an Uber here?”

Dave shrugs. “Never learned to drive. Even if I did, I’m not exactly in the right headspace to be operating a motor vehicle.”

You stare dumbfoundedly at him. “You’re a famous movie director. How do you not know how to drive? How do you not have, like, a chauffeur or something? Do people not _recognize_ you when you hop in their car?”

“One: I just never learned. I lived in downtown Houston, so I wasn’t exactly driving anywhere. Two: when I’m working on a movie, the studio usually hires a chauffeur to drive me to the set or whatever, but outside of that I don’t leave my house much, and when I do I get an Uber. Three: no, most people don’t recognize me, because I’m not a _major_ director, and a lot of people don’t even know what the more famous directors look like anyway. They’re not the ones on screen, so they don’t get that immediate recognition. You couldn’t honestly tell me you know what Scorsese or Tarantino looks like. Like, yeah, I know they’re probably old Italian guys, but outside that? No fucking clue.”

“I mean, I know what George Lucas and Spielberg look like, kind of, and I definitely know Sandler and Jordan Peele and Spike Lee, though they had screen time… and that’s it. Fuck, I guess you’re right.”

“Of fucking course I’m right, I know what I’m talking about. But even if directors _were_ recognizable, I still don’t think _I_ would be. For one, I changed my name on the Uber app, even though Dave is kind of a common as fuck name. But secondly, no one fucking recognizes me when I’m dressed like this.” He gestures to his sweatpants. “Which is pretty much all I wear when I’m not doing interviews or going to the Oscars or whatever.”

You nod, because you remember your shock when you first met him. You think you might not have even recognized him if you hadn’t known it was him. Or maybe if you hadn’t spent the days leading up to meeting him devouring every interview you could. Whatever. You weren’t obsessed. You _aren’t_ obsessed. He’s right in front of you, dumbass. “Okay, I guess I can see that. I still think you’re insane, though.”

“Think whatever you want, but it’s worked so far.”

“Yeah, well you better hope it keeps working, and that some obsessed fan doesn’t recognize you and attempt a kidnapping. Or adultnapping? Is that a fucking word?”

He laughs, but it’s strained, almost forced. It makes you wonder if he actually does worry about that, despite his assurances that he’s okay with hopping into a stranger’s car. “Don’t worry, I have ways of dealing with that.”

“I’m sure you do.” To your surprise, you actually sound genuine when you say it. You guess you’re losing your sarcastic abilities.

“Well, I should get outta your hair now.” He steps back, pulling out his phone. “Let’s hope this _isn’t_ the one who wants to kidnap me.”

You snort, amused. “Hold up. You’re not seriously calling an Uber right now.”

His phone lowers, and he tilts his head in what must be confusion. “Uh, yes? I _just_ explained that I’ll be fine. How else do you expect me to get home?”

“Dave. You’re such a dumbass sometimes.” You hold up your car keys, jiggling them emphatically. “Unlike you, I actually learned how to drive, like a regular person. So hop in.”

He frowns. “Dude, I don’t need a ride. Really.”

You roll your eyes. “Uh, yes, you do. You were just about to call an Uber.”

“Okay, let me rephrase. You don’t need to give me a ride.”

“Dave, you’re being ridiculous. Get in the car.”

“You probably have other stuff to do. I don’t wanna take up your time.”

“I literally have nothing to do, ever.” When that doesn’t change his unsure frown, you huff out a breath. “Listen, you’re paying for the production of an entire movie for me. The least I can do is give you a fucking ride home. Just let me do this.”

He sighs, looking to the side. You catch a glimpse of his eyes as his head turns, and in that glimpse you can see just how tired he is. And you were almost convinced for a little bit, with the jokes and everything, that he was feeling better. He definitely puts up a good front. “You don’t owe me anything, Karkat. We already covered this.”

“I don’t care. You’re going to let me repay you for whatever I can. Got it?”

“Is that a command?”

“If that’s what gets you to agree, then yes.”

He glances back at you, his lips quirked to one side in contemplation. Then his shoulders slump, and he gives up. “Fine.”

You smile. “Great. Get in.”

The drive is long and, for the most part, quiet. You didn’t expect to get quiet from Dave, but you suppose he’s not exactly in the mood to joke around at the moment. He takes his shades off in the car, resting his head on the passenger window, and there’s a distance in his gaze, a distractedness in the way he taps his leg, completely off-tempo from the music you’re playing. You’ve only known him for a while- has it even been a week yet?- but you wish you knew what could make him retract into himself like that. He shone so brightly that first day, but now he seems dimmer. It reminds you of how he looked in those fleeting moments when his laid-back demeanor broke and he looked nervous, almost afraid. You want to rip apart anything that could make him feel that way, protect him from a threat you don’t even know the shape of.

And there you go, settling back into the usual thought pattern. No matter how many times you tell yourself not to fall for Strider, you keep coming back to it. He’s a mystery you want to solve, a locked door you want to find the key to. Or maybe you just want him to give you that key, let you in to whatever dark thoughts swirl in that pretty head. You’ve seen him in person exactly twice, and yet it seems each interaction presents new layers to this person you’re obsessed with. This person you barely know.

You’re an absolute mess when it comes to love- you’ve always been- and you find yourself attracted to the unattainable, the mysterious, the broken. Maybe it’s unfair to characterize your past crushes that way, especially since most of them are your closest friends, but you can’t deny that’s what drew you to them. You want to know them, you want to fix them, and you want to be known and fixed in return. Above all, of course, you want to love and be loved.

You just wish you didn’t always have to complicate it for yourself. You wish you could settle for something easy. But you know love isn’t easy. Love is a struggle. That’s what makes romance so interesting to you. It’s why you watch romcoms religiously, why you spent hours reading trashy romance novels when you were younger. It’s why you find yourself falling again, for another romcom-worthy romance that’s doomed to fail.

Sollux’s predictions loom in the back of your head, and you want to curse him for giving you hope. You already have far too much of that.

You arrive at Dave's house, and he shoots you a grateful look, tired though it is. “Thanks, Karkat.”

You wave him off. “It was nothing.”

“I would invite you to stay and finish editing your script or whatever, but I’m definitely not feeling up to it. Probably gonna spend the next twenty hours laying in bed and staring at the ceiling.”

“Don’t worry, you don’t have to explain it to me. If you need anything, though, let me know.” You’re fucking tragic.

“I will _not_ take you up on that offer, but thanks anyway.” He gives you a half-smile, one hand on the car door handle. “I promise, though, when I’m feeling better I’ll call you up and we’ll finish that script.”

You smile back. “Alright, Dave. Don’t rush it, though.”

“Right.” He opens the door, swinging one foot out, but he’s still looking at you. “See ya then.”

“Yeah,” you reply, your voice much too soft for your liking. He seems to hesitate before finally leaving your car, gently shutting the door behind him. He gives you an awkward half-wave through the windshield as he’s walking to his front door, then stands watching you as you pull out of the driveway.

You push down the butterflies in your stomach, and, with them, you push down your thoughts of Dave.

You know what? Fuck your dumb infatuation, fuck Sollux’s theories, and especially fuck June and Terezi’s matchmaking.

You’re determined you can’t let this happen, and if that means fighting your every instinct, so be it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *long sigh* these men. i cannot with them.  
> in other news, i am starting to love jane more than i expected. so theres that.


	10. Chapter 10

It’s only been three days since you made the decision to _not_ fall for Dave, and you already feel your resolve crumbling.

True to his promise, Dave invited you over a few days after your meeting with Jane, insisting his mental breakdown had resolved itself, so you could finish working on your script. You begrudgingly agreed, after triple-checking that he had actually recovered from said breakdown and wasn’t just insisting you come out of a sense of obligation. This time, you told yourself that you would try to keep a professional level of distance.

That plan was trashed as soon as you arrived at Strider’s house.

He answers the door this time- no June to intercept you, you guess- and you’re almost surprised to see him wearing something other than sweatpants.

“Glad to see you making a concerted effort to dress yourself,” you say snidely, before realizing that you’re already breaking your ‘keep it professional’ vow by flirt-teasing. Also, you’re a fucking asshole for insulting his ability to put together an outfit, given that the last time you saw him he was precariously close to a full-on panic attack. And it's not like you have any room to talk, since you showed up in leggings and your most comfortable sweater, not wanting to repeat the mistake of overdressing.

Thankfully, Dave doesn’t seem to take offense. In fact, he actually gives you a quizzical smile as he looks down at his black joggers- okay, maybe not much of an upgrade from sweatpants- and graphic tee. “Uh, yeah, I guess? You’ve seen my interviews, though, right? Like, I know how to dress nice when I want to.”

You wave his comment away and step inside. “Yeah, but this is the first time I’ve seen you not wear a hoodie in person. Still have the mismatched socks, though. Typical.” Fuck what are you _doing_. Would it kill you to use your filter just once?

He snorts, closing the door behind you. “It’s too hard to find a pair of socks. I’m ninety-nine percent sure there’s a sock-eating monster living in my washing machine, gobbling down half of every pair to sate its appetite.”

“Sure, blame the washing machine! It’s definitely not because you’re too lazy to find a pair.”

“Now, Karkat, what motive could I possibly have to lie?”

“I don’t know, maybe so you don’t seem like such a lazy piece of shit.”

“Okay, that’s actually a pretty good motive. Why didn’t _I_ think of that?”

You snicker, then mentally slap yourself for doing it. You’re here for _business_.

He leads you into the now-familiar living room, taking a seat on one of the couches. You make the deliberate decision to sit on the other couch, across from Dave, and he immediately raises an eyebrow.

“You good, dude? Do I smell or something? I swear I put on deodorant.” He lifts one arm, sniffing at his armpit, and you wonder whether you actually have feelings for this weirdo. You double check, praying that they went away… aaaand nope, still there. Fuck.

“Gross. But no, you don’t smell. Is there a problem with me sitting here?”

He slowly lowers his arm back down. “Uh, I guess not? Just thought it would be easier to sit next to each other. You know, so we can read over the script together?”

“We each have our own copies.” You planned out part of this interaction ahead of time- you knew he might find it strange that you chose to sit on the other couch, so you made up excuses. Did you maybe plan this whole situation a little _too_ much? Maybe, but no one can accuse you of that if they never find out.

“Yeah, but we could make sure we’re getting the same notes down.”

“It’s fine, Dave, really. We don’t gotta match every note to the fucking letter. We’re not getting graded on our _note-taking_ skills. This isn’t college, we don’t have to use the Cornell method.”

Dave rolls his eyes. “Yo, I’m all for dissing the Cornell method any day, because _fuck_ that over-organized garbage, but I’m just trying to be sure we get the same idea across. You know, so we don’t get to filming a scene and you suddenly think I’m supposed to be shooting a high angle instead of a Dutch.”

“What the fuck even _is_ a Dutch angle?”

“Didn’t I tell you last time? It’s obviously an angle that wears little wooden shoes and mass-produces tulips.”

You give him a deadpan stare. “You know, your dumb jokes aren’t helping me remember which angle is which.”

“And a high angle is stoned twenty-four seven. My hookup is a high angle. You should meet him, he’s super chill.”

“ _Very_ helpful, David.”

He cringes at that. “Ew, don’t call me that.”

“Well, David, I’ll stop calling you David when you remind me what a Dutch and high angle _actually_ are.”

He must _really_ hate the name David, because he immediately gives in. “The Dutch is that kinda awkward, tilted face close-up, usually shot from below. And the high angle is shot from a slight angle above, looking down at the protagonist. Not as high as birds-eye. Now will you stop calling me… _that_?”

“Sure. At least now I know how to get you to shut up.”

“ _Nooooo._ My one weakness.”

You’re failing incredibly at the whole ‘keep it professional’ thing. It’s just so hard to do when it’s so _easy_ to talk to Dave. The stupid jokes, the ebb and flow of the conversation- it all comes naturally to you. “Just don’t give me a reason to use my leverage against you, and we’ll be fine.”

“Fuck, between this and giving you my undying love, I’m never gonna be able to get anything past you. Anytime I try to argue, you’ll just pull the ‘shut up David’ card and I’ll be stuck.”

Oh, yeah. You almost forgot about that ‘undying love’ thing. That’ll make it difficult to pretend you don’t have a crush on him. Time to change the subject. “Yeah… anyway, why don’t we get started?”

He shifts, his brows lowered. You hope that doesn’t mean he’s catching on. “Uh, sure.” He grabs his copy of the script, flipping through it. “Where did we leave off?”

You start working through the next few lines, getting through about a page, before your arrangement suddenly stops working. One second, you’re totally fine, the next Dave is asking you a question about lighting and you look up and he’s making direct eye contact, the sharp red cutting straight to your soul. Right. The one con to sitting across from him is that he can actually _do_ that. You must space out for a second too long, caught in his sights like prey, because Dave says something else and you snap out of it.

“W-what?”

“I asked if you’re okay. You blanked on me for a second there. You good?”

“Oh, uh, yeah.” Alright, this whole sitting-across-from-him thing was good while it lasted, but you need to be in a position where those peepers can’t catch you off guard again. You’d rather sit next to him, where, sure, you might accidentally brush up against him a few times, but at least maintained eye contact will be at a minimum. “You know what? You were right. I feel like we should be comparing notes.”

He grins smugly, not realizing the real reason behind why you’re admitting he’s right. “Told you, dawg. You should listen to me more often. I’m all hells of smart about this kind of stuff. Movies are _my_ territory, so why don’t you sit back and let me be the foreign diplomat from Cinemaland?”

You snort. Might as well go with it, let him think he won you over. “Alright, whatever, you were right about _one_ thing, that doesn’t make you a cinema _diplomat_ , whatever the fuck that means.” You get up to sit next to him.

“It’s a very important role, extremely prestigious. _Someone_ has to keep the peace between Cinemaland and the other media kingdoms.”

You swear, Dave is the only person you know who does worldbuilding for his metaphors. You just have to figure out why you find it so endearing. “So if you’re from Cinemaland, which ‘media kingdom’ am I from?”

“Oh, obviously you’re just from the Common Wastes, where all the non-media-luminaries live. But with enough hard work, you could always immigrate.”

You set yourself down next to him, carefully, trying to preserve a few inches of space. “You know what? I’m good. If your asshole kingdom is gonna snub me, I think I’d rather take my talents elsewhere, somewhere they would be _appreciated_ , like, uh, Biblionation.”

He squints at you. “Biblio? Like the Bible? How does that-”

“Biblio as in _books_ , Dave. _Biblioteca_. Do you not know Spanish?”

“Oh, uh, naw, I totally knew that. I took, like, a year of Spanish. Just didn’t connect what you were saying to ‘library’, because I guess my brain isn’t making crazy random language hops.”

“It isn’t even a language hop. English has a ton of words with the root biblio. Bibliography, bibliology, bibliophobia. It originates from Greek.” Okay, you’re a little obsessed with etymology. Probably just the result of spending your early childhood speaking multiple languages. Between your Puerto Rican dad and your Filipina mom, you got exposure to a shit ton of languages outside of English before you turned five. Add that to learning sign language from Meulin, a touch of Korean from your stepmom, and French in high school, and you’re practically a linguist.

“Wow, didn’t realize I was dealing with a _language expert_ here. Next time just say Book Nation and call it a fucking day, nerd.”

“ _Nerd?_ If anyone’s the nerd here, it’s the one who’s a metaphorical diplomat for a made-up kingdom.” And, just like that, you realize you’ve gotten sidetracked with him again, just long enough to have unconsciously slid closer and closed the gap between you two. What the fuck is wrong with you? You shift back, clearing your throat. “Speaking of, why don’t you actually do your fucking job and make sure my notes are up-to-par? You know, the whole reason I moved over here?”

He grins again. “Feisty. I’m more than happy to help, of course.” He leans over your script, and you find yourself holding your breath. He’s so fucking _close_. Why did you think this would be easier? It’s too late to move back now, though, so you’ll just have to bear it. “Looks good to me. You notated the set a little differently from me, but not to the point where we’ll have any hilariously bad misunderstandings.”

“Great,” you say, pulling your script away slightly, hoping he gets the hint to un-invade your personal space. He does eventually sit back, and you finally have a chance to breathe. “Let’s keep going, then.”

You spend the next hour stumbling through a situational tango- being pulled into the natural flow of conversation, then wrenching yourself out of it, purposefully misstepping and getting off-beat. It’s a nauseating battle between your instincts and your rationale, and it has you, more than a few times, completely fumbling your sentences, or abruptly ending a half-flirty statement, or changing a subject when it veers too close to intimate. If Dave notices your erratic behavior, he doesn’t mention it, or show any reaction to it.

But you’re at least somewhat managing to keep your composure and maintain a professional distance. That is, until you get to the main confession scene.

“ _Scene 152. Exterior, Felipe’s apartment. Dusk. Jordan runs out, Felipe following._ ” Dave reads out the scene information, and a shock goes through you, because you know exactly what’s about to go down.

You should’ve realized, probably long before you got to this part, that you wrote a _romcom_. Of _course_ there’s a fucking confession scene, followed by a bit of a makeout scene, and an implied sex scene. For fuck’s sake, this is all stuff that _you_ wrote. Why didn’t you remember this was coming up?

At least it’s not as bad as it could be. You thank whatever merciful gods are out there that you didn’t write a _novel_ or something, because reading that aloud, with every raunchy detail laid out in full, would have been downright embarrassing. The script only outlines any details in the stage directions, and even then it’s not much. But, still. You just wish you’d prepared better for this.

Dave begins reading out the lines of Jordan’s love interest, Felipe- you just had to make your story gay, too. As if it wasn’t bad enough that you and Dave were reading the lines together. “‘ _Where are you going?_ ’”

You feel your heart crawl into your throat. Another thing that’ll make getting through this hard is that Dave actually _tries_ to read the line accurately, with inflection and emotion and everything. You’re just glad you aren’t theatrically inclined and that all your lines come out sounding monotone. “‘ _I don’t care. Anywhere. As long as it’s far from you._ ’”

Dave gives you a look, one eyebrow raised. “That the best you can do, Karkat? There are three exclamation points in that line.”

You shrug, frowning. “We went over this, Dave. I’m not exactly a gifted voice actor.” You shift, facing slightly away from him, so he won’t see your face heating up. “Just read your line.”

“Fine. Um. ‘ _Oh, come on, don’t be like that!_ ’”

“‘ _I’ll be however the fuck I want. Why don’t you go pick up someone? I’m sure the club is open._ ’”

“‘ _What did I do wrong, Jordan?_ ’”

You read out the stage directions, just as robotically as you read the lines. “ _Jordan stops and turns to face Felipe. ‘Are you kidding me? You’re seriously gonna ask me that?_ ’”

“‘ _Yeah. So tell me what I fucked up this time._ ’”

“‘ _You led me on._ ’”

“‘I _led you on?_ ’”

Well, fuck. This is creeping dangerously close to something you could imagine Dave himself telling you. You clear your throat and try to focus only on the script, though you can’t help glancing up at Strider every few seconds. “‘ _I know you’re gay, Felipe. Laura told me._ ’”

“‘ _Do you have a problem with that?_ ’”

“‘ _No, fuck no, I couldn’t give a damn. But you let me believe you were dating Julie, when you_ knew _I was into her._ ’” Yeah, your plot is about as messy as expected for a romcom. Unrequited crushes, clichés, the works.

“‘ _Did I ever_ say _I was dating Julie?_ ’”

“‘ _You- you sure as hell didn’t say you_ weren’t _. And you forgot to mention you only like-_ ’” You squeak to a stop when you spy the next word. Fucking _hell_ , did you really have to write this?

“You good?” Dave asks, a small smirk on his face. You know he’s reading the line along with you, which means he knows exactly what caught you up. You just wish he didn’t have to be a smug bastard about it.

“I’m fine. Just got something caught in my throat.” You cough, unconvincingly, and Dave’s smirk only gets wider. Fucking prick. “I’ll just pick up where I left off. ‘ _And you forgot to mention you only like… dick._ ’”

To his credit, Dave doesn’t so much as snicker at that. “‘ _It’s not your business what I like._ ’”

“‘ _No, I guess it’s not, huh? I guess it’s not my business if you flirt with me, either._ ’”

“‘ _Excuse me?_ ’”

“‘ _Don’t act like you’re so innocent, Felipe. You were hitting on me._ ’” You’re glad you keep having to say the characters’ names- it just adds another layer of separation between the story and the reality of the fact that you’re sitting next to a guy you _wish_ was hitting on you.

“‘ _I was_ messing _with you, Jordan. It’s not flirting every time I talk to a guy._ ’”

“‘ _So, what, then? You don’t like me? I’m not up to your standards?_ ’”

“‘ _Whoa, where’s that coming from? Of course I like you. We’re friends, even if you’re being kind of an asshole right now._ ’”

Well, fuck if that particular line doesn’t hit you like a suckerpunch. You take a small breath- _focus_ \- and ignore how Dave’s quietly studying you. “‘ _Just friends?_ ’”

“‘ _Well, yeah. And you don’t have to worry about me trying to take things further, because I know you’re not interested._ ’”

“‘ _You don’t know shit.’ Jordan… kisses Felipe._ ” You pause, letting the stage direction hang in the air, and chance a peek at Dave. He’s smiling, so soft and faint you’re sure it must be unconscious, staring down at your script with that same quiet air. You’re not just thinking about your characters kissing anymore.

He must feel your eyes on him, because he looks up, blinking, vaguely confused. “What?”

You scowl, probably blushing. “What do you mean, _what_?”

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

“You…” Uh fuck, think of something. “It’s your line next.”

“Oh. I was just… your script is really good. I mean, it’s cheesy as hell and not really the kind of thing I dig, but… this scene is sweet.”

Yeah, you’re definitely blushing now. “It’s fucking stupid, is what it is. I was just following a dumb cliché, having their fight end with a kiss.” Enemies to lovers was always one of your favorite tropes. You wonder, randomly, if your brief dislike of Dave before meeting him counts as _enemies_. Probably not, especially since he didn’t dislike you back. Not that it matters, when you’re never going to be lovers anyway.

“No, there’s more to it. It’s… I don’t know, inspiring? The way Jordan takes the initiative, when he’s not even really sure how he feels, or how Felipe feels, or even about his sexuality… it’s like, he’s already accepted however it all ends up. I mean, I would _not_ have been this brave, back when… well, when I was first figuring all that shit out for myself.” He runs a hand through his hair, sheepish, but still glances back at you.

You… you’re not sure if you really put that much thought into it when you wrote it. You just put down what made sense to you. A decade of work into this script, and you couldn’t make that kind of observation. Maybe it’s just because he has an outside perspective on it. Or maybe because you never really struggled with your sexuality- you pretty much knew you were bisexual by seventh grade, when you had a crush on Sollux, and Terezi, and, yes, Gamzee, all at the same time. Okay, maybe you were just a hormonal disaster in seventh grade. Maybe you’re still a hormonal disaster now. “Oh. That’s, um, good. I didn’t really see it that way.”

“Well, that’s why I’m here. To give you some clarity.” He flashes a small, awkward smile at you, which does the opposite of giving you clarity. “Director D-Stri is ready to over-analyze every artistic decision you make. Just say the word, and I’ll find an allegory for existentialism in a scene about getting a girl’s number.”

You roll your eyes, doing your best to bottle up your jumbled thoughts. “Thank you, _D-Stri_ , but that particular service will not be needed.”

He grins, sitting back. “Aight, whatever you say, Mr. Executive Producer. We continuing the scene now? It’s my line, right?”

You nod, staring back at your script. It’s easier than making eye contact. “Uh, yeah.”

“‘ _Well, you’re full of surprises, aren’t you?_ ’”

“‘ _Yeah. Just had to prove I’m not so predictable_.’”

“‘ _So, what is this? You don’t hate me anymore? I finally wore you down?_ ’”

You really wish you hadn’t written some of these characters’ traits with yourself in mind. They are just as obstinately stubborn and unjustifiably pissed off as you are. You could almost imagine someone you care about, in the future, using stupid lines like this against you. Having Dave say them right now doesn’t help. “ _He laughs. ‘I don’t think I ever hated you. You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that._ ’”

“‘ _Probably not as long as me.’ They, uh, kiss again._ ” Dave pauses, looking up at you. “It looks like there’s just stage directions for the next scene.”

You shrug, your cheeks already coloring. “Yeah, they have sex.”

Dave whistles low. “Damn, on screen? Is it gonna be, like, that PG-13 shit where we just show the covers moving around, or are you thinking R-rated?”

“I don’t know!” You’re more than a little embarrassed, especially when Dave smirks cheekily at you. “Don’t grin at me like that, asswipe!”

“I just wanna know what you want,” he teases, poking you in the side. You squirm away, glaring at him. Does he not know how hard he’s making the whole ‘be professional’ thing?

“Well, I haven’t really thought about it! I guess I still want it to be accessible to teenagers. Not that an R rating stops most of them. I just don’t want people to think it’s just for adults.”

“So PG-13. Vanilla, under-the-covers, barely-there sex. Got it.”

You would really like to change the subject. “Okay, that’s settled! Why don’t we go over the technical shit for that last scene?”

Dave snickers at you. Wow, are you that obviously embarrassed? “Sure.”

You discuss the lighting and staging for the confession scene, and then the same for the sex scene, which is more than a little awkward, especially when Dave asks you what _position_ the characters are in. You try to breeze past it all as fast as possible, getting to the rest of the scenes.

Turns out, there’s only about twenty or so after that, most of them relatively uneventful- just the typical romcom climax and denouement- so you and Dave power through them. You can’t help but get a little excited when you finish the last scene.

“Roll credits,” Dave says, as he finishes jotting down his notes about the last shot. He slings his arm around you, gripping your shoulder, and you try not to tense up too much at the touch. “We finally finished!”

You shove him away, _lightly,_ though you can't help but grin. “Idiot, all we did was edit the script. Did you forget we actually have to _film_ this sucker?”

He waves his hand at your remark, shooing it off. “Eh, we’ll get to that when we get to it. Aren’t you pumped we got through step one?”

“Sure, I’m ‘pumped’. But mostly I’m really fucking anxious to get through the next hundred steps.”

“Relaaaax, K-kat, focus on the journey, not the destination.” You scowl at the nickname, wondering how many bastardizations of your name he’ll have come up with by the time you _actually_ finish the movie. “We should have a _celebration_ for this newly-christened movie script.”

You’re immediately suspicious. “What do you mean by _celebration_?”

“Oh, nothing big, of course. Unless you want to invite people? I was just thinking you and me, having dinner or something. Maybe getting started on that must-watch movie list.”

As nice as that sounds, it’s a little intimate, skirting much too close to that dangerous date territory. “I don’t know, Dave. It’s late. I gotta get home.”

He squints at you. “It’s, like, seven thirty. We don’t gotta do the movie, if you’re trying to get home early, but we should at least eat something. Didn’t you say you usually eat dinner around now?”

Fuck Dave and his scarily good memory. You don’t see how you can weasel yourself out of this one. Just… make it professional. “Okay, maybe I can stay just to eat. But _I’m_ paying this time.”

Dave smirks. “You know what that means?”

Once again, your suspicions immediately raise. “… _What?_ ” you ask, extremely hesitant.

“It means I get to choose what we eat this time.”

You groan. “As long as it’s not Oli-”

“Olive Garden. We’re getting Olive Garden, unless you want me to pay.”

“I am _not_ ordering Olive Garden. We had Italian last time!”

“Listen, my only other choice is Taco Bell, and I doubt you want that.”

There is something seriously wrong with this man. You’re not sure why you’re still attracted to him. “I’m not getting Taco Hell! My bowels are fucked up enough as is.”

He gives you a shrug, fully grinning. “Guess we’re having Olive Garden, then.”

“ _Dave_.” He thinks he’s the only one who can use leverage? Ha. He clearly doesn’t know who he’s dealing with. “Look, I don’t _have_ to stay here. I could just go home and eat the leftover chicken casserole sitting in my fridge and _not_ waste my money buying fucking _Olive Garden_ for two. I’m sure you can think of another option.”

His pout should be illegal. Forget about Jade’s puppy-dog pout; one look from Dave could probably convince you to commit murder. “ _Fine_. Just ‘cause you’re being a grade-A ass about it. There’s a pretty good Thai place near here. They have this one bomb-ass seafood dish I get every time. It’s got mussels and oysters and _squid_ and shit, with some random ass sauce, and it’s all on glass noodles, and it’s fucking _heaven_.”

Your mouth waters just thinking about it. You haven’t exactly been eating out a lot lately, at least not at many restaurants. Partly due to lack of funds, and partly due to not wanting to go out to eat alone. You do try to order stuff from time to time, and you guess now that you’re not indefinitely busy you could grab a meal with some friends. You just haven’t had the chance. “See? Now _that’s_ a food suggestion. You sold it to me.”

“Hey, I could _definitely_ sell Olive Garden to you. I mean, that spaghetti? _Entirely_ mediocre. The meatballs are so inspiringly bland, I could cast them in a low-budget production of Hamlet.”

You snort, pulling out your phone. “Yep, _definitely_ want to order subpar Italian now.”

“Told you. I can make pretty much anything sound appetizing.”

“Oh, don’t get me wrong, Dave, it didn’t sound appetizing in the slightest. Thai it is.”

“Tragic. Truly. Just think about all the breadsticks you’re missing out on.”

“I’m thinking about them and… yep still don’t find them appealing at all!”

You order for both of you- Dave gets his seafood dish and you get pad thai because you don’t know the restaurant that well and you can never go wrong with pad thai. And then you sit back and wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so. much. goddamn. italics. note to self: never write a scene from a nonexistent movie again, thanks.  
> also, can yall tell im craving thai food?


	11. Chapter 11

Almost as soon as you’ve put the food order through, Dave chooses to suddenly not fill every existing silence with distracted rambling. The awkward quiet drags out as you sit on his couch, his eyes on you the whole time. Is he goading you to talk? There isn’t any challenge in his eyes, no dare for you to take up the conversational reigns, but you’re not sure what else he could possibly expect from you. You shift, uncomfortable, and decide, fuck it. You’ll break the tension if he won’t.

“So…” you start, before realizing you didn’t even think of a topic. Fuck.

One of Dave’s eyebrows raise quizzically. “So?”

Your gaze lands on the finished script in front of you. Hey, there’s an idea- talk about the reason why you’re here in the first place. “So what’s the next step? Is this when casting happens? Or does the studio have to get through more bureaucratic bullshit first?”

Dave inclines his head, waving his hand idly. “Bureaucratic bullshit. They’ll probably go over your script about a thousand more times.” At your slightly panicked look, he puts both hands up. “No stress, they won’t do anything more invasive than what we did. It’s mostly just to fuck around with my stage directions, figure out what they need for the set and stuff, get an idea for the budget. All that jazz. They might hire a few extra producers, too.” He starts listing things out on those long, thin fingers of his. “After that, it’ll probably be hiring the set and costume and lighting crew. Just a shit ton of crews, we’ll be swimming in them. Oh, and sound and vis effect people. And plenty of interns to fetch us coffee and snacks and whatever else we want. I’m probably missing a few things, but yeah. All that’ll have to come before we even think about casting.”

Your head is spinning a little bit. “How… how many people are we talking about here?”

“I dunno, at least a hundred. Probably a lot more.”

That makes you much more nervous suddenly. “All those people are fucking depending on _me_?”

Dave blinks at you. “What?”

“Okay, that’s it, we can’t make this movie! It was insane enough when it was just me and you and some studio execs, but now it’s batshit!”

“Whoa, Karkat, _what_? What are you talking about?”

You knot your hands into your hair, staring at nothing. “Holy shit, I can’t let a _hundred_ people rely on my joke of a movie! It’s going to fucking fail and then what? How do I pay for all of them? I can’t ask them to fucking _trust_ me, I can’t ask them to _risk_ that for me! We can’t-”

“Karkat!” Dave breaks through your rant, gently grabbing your wrists and coaxing your hands out of the tangled mess topping your head. You let it happen, though you’re shaking more than a little. “Calm down. We talked about this, and I already told you, you don’t gotta worry about any of that.”

“That was before I knew there were _multiple people_ to think about!” you hiss out, screwing your eyes closed.

“Karkat. Hey. Look at me.” You peek one eye open to find both of his looking back, soft and bright and searching. “All those people are covered by the studio. And if they aren’t, they’re covered by me. No one is relying on you.”

You shake your head. “I can’t ask you to do that, Dave. You can’t do that for me.”

“I can, actually. What did you think I was paying for?”

“I- I don’t know! The production costs?”

“Yeah, and part of that _comes_ from paying the dudes behind the production.”

“ _Why?_ ” you ask, your voice almost breaking. “Why are you doing this for me?”

Dave sighs, lowering your hands, though he keeps his loose grip on them. “Again, I’ve told you this already. Because I’m friends with June, and she asked me to do this, and because I like you and I think your script is really good.”

You nearly choke at that. “Really? You just throw your money indiscriminately at me because _June asked you_ and _you like me_? Who the fuck does that?”

“Me, I guess? I already told you I don’t really care about money. This isn’t a big deal for me.”

“Well, it’s a _huge_ deal for me!” You’re shouting at him now, and you know you’re probably fucking this up right now, ruining this opportunity, but you don’t care. You violently pull your hands away, standing up, because for some goddamn reason you think now is the perfect time to get pissed at him. “Maybe spending millions of dollars on a shitty charity act like me is just another Tuesday for you, but it’s not fucking normal! Your privileged ass might not ‘care about money’, but the rest of us don’t have a single fucking _cent_ to blow! _I_ don’t have a cent to blow! So _please_ , tell me how this isn’t a big deal! Explain why you would fucking do something as brain-rottingly insane as this!”

“I don’t know what you want to hear from me, Karkat.” To Dave’s credit, he doesn’t take your bait, doesn’t yell back at you. He watches you from the couch, his voice just as calm as it was a minute ago. That’s almost just as infuriating to you. “I don’t know how to explain it. I really want to do this for you. I’m not… I’m not used to living like this.” He sighs, weakly gesturing at the room around him. You have to hold back your impulse to keep chewing him out, because he’s clearly struggling with what to say. “I never had _money_ like this, or a house like this, or _anything_. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with it all. I don’t know what’s _normal_. I don’t mean to sound pretentious about it, because I was in the same place as you with all this shit not even ten years ago. I just… I’m not used to being comfortable. So, yeah, I’m okay spending a shit ton on you, because I know I can survive off of nothing. Hell, I’ll have enough left after this to give away to _actual_ fucking charities. Not that I think of you like that, because, and let me make this clear as crystal, you are _not_ a charity act for me. You’re my friend, and I like you, and I’m cool with doing this for you because it’s something you really want and it ain’t gonna do any damage to me even if your movie flops, which it won’t. And yeah, that sounds privileged as hell, but it’s the fucking truth. I want to do this for you, and that’s the best fucking explanation I have.”

By the end, his expression is open and honest, and it’s the exact kind of expression that absolutely flays you, displaying every little emotion locked up inside your chest. You take a moment to gather your scattered thoughts, shove those pesky emotions back into your mutilated torso, and make the best attempt at a response you can. “Fuck. Okay.” Your voice comes out thick with feeling.

Dave waits for you to say more, but you stop there, because it turns out two words is all you can get past your swollen throat. “Um… okay? That all you have to say?”

“No. I mean, _fuck_.” You sink back onto the couch, staring at the ground, wishing it would swallow you up and send you straight to the Earth’s core, because that wouldn’t be less painful than this conversation. “I’m just trying to… process.”

“Ooookay.”

You clench your fists, watching the veins pop out on the backs of your hands, and let out a long breath. Maybe it would be best if you didn’t immediately try to parse your emotional state after hearing him say all of that. “I’m sorry.”

He’s looking at you as if you’re a puzzle he’s trying to figure out. Then again, you are being a bit of an obtuse fuck, so he has every right to be confused. “For what? I feel like I should be the sorry one here.”

“No, fuck, you’re fine. I shouldn’t have blown up on you, or called you privileged, or any of that shit.”

“I mean, you were right, though.”

“No, I wasn’t!” The outburst only makes the furrow in his brow deepen, and you groan. “Okay, maybe I was, but that wasn’t _why_ I said any of it. I’m just… scared.”

“Of what?”

“What do you think?” you snap, once again immediately forgetting how to have a conversation like a normal, decent, well-adjusted person. He doesn’t flinch, though, so maybe you weren’t being as forceful as you felt. You can count that as a small miracle. “Sorry. It’s just… the idea of all those people having to rely on me, that scared the fucking _shit_ out of me. I don’t want to let anyone down. I don’t want to let _you_ down.”

Dave’s face somehow softens even more. “Karkat, you couldn’t possibly let me down.”

That only makes you feel worse, though. Your frown probably gives you away. “You’re only saying that ’cause you don’t know how much of a fuck-up I am yet.”

“Naw. You, a fuck-up? There’s no way.” You give him an unamused glare, but he just folds his arms and levels an ‘I mean business’ look right back. “I’m not joking, dude. Especially with how much effort and care you’ve put into this movie- seriously, no one I’ve ever worked with has been this invested in the thing they were making. There’s no way you would let yourself fuck it up.”

“It’s not about _letting_ myself fuck it up. You think I would _willingly_ sabotage myself?” Well, you sort of are doing that in regard to your relationship with Dave, but he doesn’t need to know that particular fact, and anyway it’s for the greater good. You’ll be much happier not having to deal with the headache that dating him would probably cause, and maybe if you keep telling yourself that, you’ll believe it one day. “Not once have I given my mistakes permission to happen, but what do you know, turns out they don’t _need_ my permission, and never have! Every time I’m close to getting something I want, I just end up fumbling ass-backwards into another unavoidable, classic Karkat screw-up, and completely decimate the few good things in my life! It’s practically a statistical _certainty_ that I’ll inevitably fuck this movie up, too, so I would, at the very _least_ , like to limit the amount of innocent civilians who are forced to stand within the blast radius when this thing implodes on itself!”

Dave blinks at you, clearly taken aback by your rant. His mouth opens, ready to spout what you’re sure would be another quick-witted attempt to boost your confidence- as if boosting your shitty, low confidence was even possible. Thankfully, he’s saved from any attempt to do so when your phone buzzes. You scowl down at the screen only to relax when you realize it’s just from Doordash. Perfect timing. “Food’s here,” you mutter to Dave, before standing up and making your way to the door as quickly as possible, praying he won’t follow. The delivery would make a great excuse for you to get away from him and your compulsion to either flirt or expel every ugly secret locked in your heart. Unfortunately, Dave doesn’t seem to get the memo, trailing behind you, though he keeps a few feet of distance. You guess it _is_ his house, after all, and he should probably be the one to answer the door, even if you’re the one who paid for the food.

As soon as the doorbell rings, Dave reaches past you for the handle, swinging the door open and almost hitting you with it. You’re able to jump out of the way, glaring at the apologetic shrug he gives you. The poor delivery girl watches with wide eyes, and you realize you probably don’t look the most welcoming with your perma-scowl, so you try to wipe it off your face.

“Is one of you… Karkat?” she asks, glancing back and forth between you.

You give Dave another meaningful look, telling him to back off with your eyes alone, and take a half-step forward. “Yeah, that’s me.” She hands you the bag of food, then stands there expectantly, most likely hoping for a tip, and of course, even though you know you already agreed to some tip amount in the app, you’re also not so much of an asshole to know that she probably doesn’t see enough of that money. You try to fish in your pockets for your wallet, but with the bag of food in one hand you have more trouble than necessary.

“I got it,” Dave says, and, before you can stop him, he’s manifested a crumpled ten from his hoodie pocket- did he have that ready?- and is handing it to the girl. She gives you both a grateful, if awkward, smile and rushes back to her car.

As soon as the door’s shut again, you whirl on Dave. “You should’ve let me pay the tip,” you hiss, and yeah, maybe you’re getting more worked up about this than is necessary, but you’re still riding a wave of emotion and you’d rather direct it at something as meaningless as arguing over tipping and not, you know, laying out your every insecurity for him to see. “I had it.”

“Yeah, well, you looked like you were struggling,” he replies, shrugging again. “And I had that nat twenty initiative roll, so I thought I might as well get the encounter over quick, you know? Sorry if I cheated you out of that sweet XP.”

“What the fuck are you talking about, Strider? I swear your metaphors get dorkier and harder to understand every fucking time they tumble out of your garbage can of a mouth.” This is easier, you think. Insults come naturally to you, and it’s much safer if you insult him rather than yourself. That way you don’t accidentally share all the things you hate about your pathetic existence.

“I don’t see what you’re all worked up about, bro. I let you pay for the meal, which is what we agreed on, and I was even magnanimous enough to let you choose the restaurant, too-”

“Oh, _please_.”

“-which was a _direct_ violation of our signed contract-”

“I didn’t sign _shit_ , dumbass.”

“-so I’m pretty sure it’s not a big deal if I cover the tip. Think of it as collateral for going back on our agreement.”

“That is the most asinine shit I’ve heard in my goddamn life! Do you even process half the- hey, where are you going?” You cut yourself off as you notice he’s returning to the living room, and you scramble to catch up.

Dave shoots a glance over his shoulder. “Just thought we could eat on the couch.”

You stop dead in your tracks. “You’re joking, right? Because there’s no fucking _way_ I’m risking dropping a noodle or something on your expensive-ass cushions!”

“Relax, dude, I do it all the time. It ain’t hard to get that shit dry-cleaned.” He turns around fully, casually leaning on a wall as he gives you a once over. “I swear you’re the most wound-up nervous wreck of a person I’ve ever met. Take a chill pill or five, man, I’m afraid a diamond’s gonna pop out of that tight asshole. That’ll cause some real rectal tears.”

You’re pretty sure you do a full-body recoil at that. “Jesus _Christ_ , Dave, do you always have to say things in the most disgusting way imaginable?” 

“That’s just part of my personal brand, K-man. Take it or leave it.”

“Leave it! One hundred percent leave it, along with all the stupid nicknames you come up with for me. Thanks for giving me what was probably the easiest fucking choice in my life!”

“Okay, I see how it is now. You don’t want to chill with me anymore, that’s fine, I get it, you can’t take the insane levels of cool coming off me, that Strider subzero. Guess we just can’t be bros anymore.”

You roll your eyes, shoving past him. If he wants to eat in the living room, fuck it, it’s not like they’re _your_ couch cushions. “That’s not what I meant and you know it, dumbass. Just, would it kill you to tone it down a _little_?”

“Yes, actually, it would, and it’s a very serious condition, so it’d be great if you didn’t make light of it, thanks.” He decides to retaliate by jogging past you, sticking out his tongue like the child he is, just so he can drop onto the couch before you. You sneer at him- looks like you’ve graduated from scowling- before sitting next to him, leaving a good amount of space, and setting the food down on the table.

“Sure, I’m _definitely_ gonna respect what I’m almost completely positive is a made-up illness.” You reach into the bag to grab the takeout containers, but Dave stops you, his hand snapping out and pushing your arm back. You shoot him a curiously annoyed look. “What?”

“Before we dig in, just wanted to say… you don’t gotta worry about fucking up.”

Well, that cleared up exactly nothing. “ _What?_ ”

Dave clears his throat, his eyes dipping towards the ground. “The movie. It shouldn’t be all on you. I know you probably think it should be, because it’s _your_ movie or whatever, but that’s bullshit. You’re not solely responsible for its success anymore, just like you’re not responsible for the costs, or any of the people working on it, for that matter.” You attempt to protest at that, but he talks right over you, his voice fast and intense and more passionate than you’ve ever heard it. “And I’m gonna keep drilling that into your brain, because apparently it didn’t stick the first time. I’m part of this now, like it or not, and so are those people, so if something, somehow, goes wrong, and the whole movie gets fucked to high heaven, that’s _not on you_. And besides, it ain’t gonna get fucked to high heaven, because I _know_ you’ll fight tooth and fucking nail for this movie to work, and even if you slip up, I’mma be there doing everything I can, too. So you can stop beating yourself up and taking all the blame for any hypothetical slip-ups, because it’s dumb as hell to worry about something that ain’t gonna happen and ain’t your responsibility.”

By the end of his all-too-astute spiel, a jagged feeling has lodged itself in your chest, invasive and uncomfortable but not entirely unwelcome, as you realize just how much of you he has figured out. While you take a few moments to formulate a response, mouth working open and closed like a washed-up fish, Dave pulls the rectangular styrofoam containers out of the bag, popping them open and placing the correct meals in front of each of you. It’s a valiant attempt to put on a display of disinterest, but you’re just perceptive enough to see the tremble in his hands. He pulls your attention with a last quip, a thrown-in attempt to bring levity to the situation, but muttered under his breath in a way that makes you think he hopes you won’t hear it. “And that makes twice today that I’ve had to talk some sense into your dumb ass, so if you’re gonna have any more irrational pseudo-breakdowns, please direct them to some other douchebag with incredible insight, because Dave Strider is fresh out.”

Your words come in stilted starts and stops. “I- you can’t- that’s not how it works.”

He looks up at you with an extremely unimpressed stare, a plastic silverware sleeve already half-opened in one hand. “That’s not how _what_ works, Karkat? I just threw a lot at you, dude, you’re gonna have to be more specific.”

“It doesn’t- I’m just-” You sigh, aggravated, as you struggle to find the words. As if giving you more time to think, he points the other bundle of silverware in your direction, raising an eyebrow ever-so-slowly in what is clearly mock encouragement, and you snatch it from him, glowering. Then you take a deep breath, assemble your jumbled thoughts, and hit the gas. “Just because you and a bunch of disillusioned strangers are working on my movie now doesn’t make it any less _mine_. _I’m_ the one who wrote it and started this whole fucking mess, so no matter how many unfortunate people hop on to try to get this thing going, if- or _when_ \- it ends up going down in flames, that’s still _my_ responsibility.”

Dave clucks his tongue in disappointment. “Naw, see, now _that’s_ getting into semantics, and here’s why. If we’re gonna delve into who’s making this movie happen, you gotta keep in mind that, if it weren’t for me, or all those ‘disillusioned strangers’, your script woulda never gotten off the ground- it’d just be laying there like a sad, flightless bird, staring up at the sky and wishing evolution gave it real wings instead of those pointless flippers penguins got stuck with. So if anything, the movie is, at the very least, also my responsibility, because _we’re_ doing this man, where making this hapen.” You try and fail not to facepalm at what is one of the most iconic- and, in your opinion, most insipid- references from his movies. He ignores your exasperation, opting instead to stab his noodles and swirl a few around his fork, all just to gesture at you with it as he speaks. “Hell, throw June in there, because without her you wouldn’t have even met me in the first fucking place!”

You snort at him, ripping open your own silverware package. “Well, Mr. Smartass, did you ever stop to consider the _exceedingly simple_ fact that, without me writing the script in the _first_ place and starting this whole mess, there wouldn’t be a fucking movie at all? No, you didn’t, because you lack the basic human capacity to make logical conclusions!”

“Bro, how are you not getting this? It doesn’t matter if you wrote the damn thing, and it _definitely_ doesn’t matter who ‘started’ it. That is about the stupidest way to assign blame, and I know I’m right about this, because the only other people dumb enough to use the ‘you started it’ excuse are still in kindergarten, shitting their pants while they get hooked on phonics. The fact of the goddamn matter is, the blame falls as much on me as it does you, because even if you _did_ start it, I decided to finish it, and now Ms. Harrison is giving us both detention because fighting ain’t allowed in her classroom, ever, no matter the reason.” He leans back smugly, sticking his fork in his mouth, a clear signal that he thinks the conversation is over after dropping that masterful disaster of a metaphor.

“That doesn’t make any fucking sense.” It actually makes a lot of sense, and you’re slowly coming around to his point, but you’ll be damned if you let him on to that. “This isn’t a fucking fight- okay, maybe we’re arguing a _little_ , but do you see any punches getting thrown? No! We’re making a movie, so your dumbass blame rules don’t even apply.”

He swallows, his Adam’s apple dipping down the curve of his throat- which you definitely _don’t_ watch the whole way- and gives you an annoyed glance. “Like hell they don’t. A fight needs at least two people to get it going, just like this movie needs both of _us_ to get it going. It’s totally the same principle. So we’re gonna be sharing the responsibility for this thing from here on out. Now, I’m sure sharing is a new concept for you, since you’re clearly still a toddler, so I’ll explain it to you again. It’s when-”

“Oh, go fuck yourself!” you grumble loudly, elbowing him in the side to stop his stream of words. It works, though not quite as intended- he starts cracking up, mouth splitting in a wide smile, and it takes everything in your power to not grin back. His laughter is infectious as hell, though, and you feel your pout slipping away. It’s hard to stay mad at Dave, and it’s not like you really _want_ to be mad at him, anyway. Except you think you were more mad at yourself than anything. It’s just frustrating, to be around him like this, to have him reassuring you every step of the way, to be _this_ tempted to kiss that stupid smile off his stupid face, when you know how bad of an idea it is, when you know it’s never, _ever_ gonna happen.

Dave is blissfully unaware of the self-pitying thoughts churning in your head. “So I’m pretty sure I aced that discussion. I think I deserve an apology. ‘Oh, so sorry, Dave, I was such an ignorant fool for doubting your wisdom. What would I do without you?’”

“I’d probably be a lot better off!” You say it in a way that makes it obvious you don’t really feel that way. You’re just too prideful to admit you were wrong.

“Damn, go for the jugular, why don’t you? You really make a man feel wanted.”

“Yeah, yeah, asshole.” You finally take a bite of your pad thai, pleased to find it still warm, and tasting better than you expected for a restaurant that Dave picked. The panic from earlier is finally dulling, and while you don’t think you can completely relinquish responsibility for your movie to him, you’re sure you can feel a bit of the burden slipping off your shoulders. You take a slow, steadying breath, then, as quickly and quietly as you can manage, you mumble, “Thanks.”

“What was that?” Dave asks, teasingly facetious, and you know he heard you perfectly well. “I don’t think I caught it.”

“I said _thanks_ , you obsequious moron.” You bark out the words, much louder this time around. “Are you happy?”

“Totally. Except… I’m not really sure what you’re thanking me for?”

You pinch the bridge of your nose, sighing. “You’re really a dense motherfucker, aren’t you? I’m _thanking you_ for talking me down from my angry tirade. I know I’m a lot to deal with when I’m being an irrational pissbaby, so you having the patience to beat some sense into my rot-addled brain means a lot.”

“Uh-” Dave coughs, his cheeks lit bright red, apparently flustered by your comment, and you have no fucking clue why. He quickly regains his composure, straightening up, though you notice his fingers absentmindedly picking at the hem of his shirt. “So you admit I was right?”

“Whatever! What the fuck should I care if you want to attach your name to the movie? Hell, be the captain, go the fuck ahead, just don’t complain when we eventually hit an iceberg and you have to go down with the ship!”

“That doesn’t sound very grateful to me, K-kat.”

“Ugh! Just-” You cut yourself off with a groan. “I already said ‘thank you’ twice.”

Dave grins, as if he were expecting you to say exactly that. “Well, I’m still waiting on that ‘sorry’.”

This man is going to be the death of you. Either that or you’re going to end up throttling him. “Fine! I’m _sorry_ for being a neurotic asshole who’s against the idea of anyone else taking responsibility for his fuckups!”

“See, that wasn’t so hard, was it? I forgive you.”

You fling a peanut at him, scowling, and he has the audacity to not even flinch. “Fuck you!”

“Hey, careful where you toss those peanuts, I know Egbert ain’t around but those things could be deadly.” Even though his smirk is at your expense, you can’t help the fuzzy feelings that slip into your center when he aims it at you. And then you mentally slap yourself for thinking that. How quickly you’ve eschewed your commitment to keeping things professional. You spent the past twenty minutes practically screaming at him. “I’m guessing this means we won’t have to have this conversation again in the future? The whole ‘oh fuck people are _relying_ on me’ conversation, I mean, not the Egbert peanut allergy one.”

“Yeah. I think we’ve soundly squared that shitty conversation away.” You’ll still have your doubts, the nagging thought that you’ll somehow still fuck everything up irreparably, but at least you can maybe rest easier knowing Dave’s there to help. “Can we also not make these deep as hell conversations a recurrent thing? It’s embarrassing enough having to talk to you without revealing my deepest insecurities.”

“Sure, bro, but if anything this was just payment for the help you gave me when I was…” He trails off, rubbing the back of his head, refusing to meet your gaze. “Uh. You know.”

Right. His mental break. Or whatever the hell that was. You hadn’t really talked him through it, hadn’t even figured out what was bothering him, so you have no idea how he could possibly classify that as ‘help’. But he doesn’t look at all like he’s up to talk about it now, or ever, so you shrug. “It’s no big deal. I was just being a good friend.”

“Yeah, you were.” He gives the floor a resolute nod, still not facing you. “I’m just returning the favor, you know. Just saying you shouldn’t worry so much.”

“Neither should you,” you shoot back, your voice more gentle than you intended, than you even thought possible given your shouty tendencies. He finally looks up at you, surprised, before his mouth melts into a shining smile, set to full-blast, and if you thought the last one set you buzzing, this one burns right through you, searing itself into your brain. You break eye contact, glaring at your food to disguise how off-kilter you feel. “Anyway, let’s fucking agree to avoid any conversations like that in the future, because that was about as pleasant as disgorging my spleen.”

Dave snickers, his smile turning wicked and sharp at the edges. “Yeah, I can get down with that. The ‘agreeing with you’ part, not the ‘disgorging my spleen’ part, because I don’t even know how I would _begin_ to do that, like, would I have to manually cut out and eat my spleen so that I can actually upchuck it in the first-”

“ _Please_ stop making the gross thing I said even more disgusting.”

“Fine, fine. I’m agreeing with you. I mean, I said it earlier, my coffers of good advice and intuitive comments have been completely emptied, so you’ll have to wait for me to restock before you try beggin’ some more outta me, like some hella rude version of Oliver Twist, replacing the quintessential ‘please, sir’ with the Vantas-original ‘fuck you, asshole’ because you ain’t got a single polite bone in your body. A motherfuckin’ feat of biology, they called you, cause-”

“Would you just shut up and eat your food?”

He rolls his eyes, excessively exaggerated, before complying with your command, looking happy enough to have another forkful of noodles in his mouth.

The mood having lifted considerably, your dinner progresses a lot more amicably, and you let yourself slip back into that easy back-and-forth with Dave, despite your own warnings. And when he offers you a mussel to try, you only refuse it twice before begrudgingly plucking the shimmering black shell from his fingers. He finishes his food much earlier than you, like last time, then regales you with dumb stories about him and June until your takeout container is just as empty.

When you finally get up to leave, you almost feel as disappointed as he looks. He walks you all the way to your car this time, rambling on and on about one of June’s pranks, not stopping when you climb into your car. You wait, one foot hanging out the open door, as he leans against the frame of your car, wrapping up a tangent about hockey pucks, of all things. His words eventually slow to a stop, and he just stares down at you, his face warmly lit by the interior lights of your car. Your heart makes a desperate attempt to escape your ribcage.

“So… I’ll see you… when I see you,” he says, his voice suddenly a lot quieter. “Dunno when that’ll be, guess it’s up to Jane.”

“Right,” you reply, your tone so much harsher in contrast to his, grating and loud enough to make you cringe. He doesn’t look too bothered by it, though, the corner of his mouth lifting in a little half grin. “See you.”

“Uh-huh.” He keeps watching you with that dopey grin.

“You, uh mind getting off of my car?”

“Oh, um, yeah, no problem,” he mumbles, straightening up slowly before taking a step back, as if to delay your departure a few seconds more. You swing your foot in, your hand reaching for the door handle, but you hesitate in closing it, because you guess he’s not the only one who wants to prolong this. _Jesus fucking Christ, what are you doing?_

“Goodnight, Dave.”

“’Night, Karkat.”

You finally swing your door shut, though the barrier isn’t enough to keep your eyes off Dave, even as you start your car, even as you throw it in reverse, even as you back your way out of his driveway. It’s not until you turn onto the road, your heart in your throat, that you fully wrench your gaze away.

You’ve got it _real_ bad for him. There’s no denying that now, no pushing it down or forcing yourself not to feel anything, because all that does is turn you into a nightmare who can’t stop himself from blowing up in other peoples’ faces.

All you can do now is hope this doesn’t end as messily as you fear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> jesus this chapter is SO FUCKING LONG i just cannot stop the word machine once it starts huh

**Author's Note:**

> follow me on twitter @lucidlyLucid for updates on this and other fics! and maybe a funny tweet once in a while who knows


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